


The Wages of Sin

by CorvetteClaire



Series: In the Mirror [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Consensual Sex, Established Relationship, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Mystery, Non-Graphic Violence, Not Epilogue Compliant, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2020-06-03 16:10:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 154,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19467481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorvetteClaire/pseuds/CorvetteClaire
Summary: The wages of sin may not always be death, but someonemustpay.A grieving mother, a well-intentioned aunt, a series of mysterious attacks and a relentless scandal sheet put Harry and Draco at the eye of a storm. All they want is to enjoy a quiet life together, but the wizarding world has other ideas.Sequel to:Sins of the FatherandSins of the Flesh.This story has been revised!See Author's Notes for details.





	1. Prologue: Exile

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! Here's the sequel to _Sins of the Flesh_ , as promised! 
> 
> This story is mostly a mystery (with a healthy dose of angst and romance on the side), which is something of a departure for me. I don't pretend to be a great mystery writer and don't expect to keep you all in the dark for long, but hopefully you'll enjoy it even if you figure it all out. 
> 
> Happy reading! Please let me know what you think!
> 
>  **Notes on Revisions:**  
>  After completing this story, I decided that I wasn't satisfied with several of the later chapter, so I have revised and (hopefully) improved them. Some have just been edited and tightened up, some have been heavily revised, and one was totally replaced. I have added labels to the chapter titles indicating which chapters are changed and, where relevant, details in the Author's Notes.
> 
> For those of you who've already read this fic and might prefer it the way you remember it, I'm creating an Appendix to the In The Mirror series, where I'll post the original chapters. 
> 
> I don't know if any of my readers will find these changes or will care about them, but I hope that a few of you do. And I hope, whether you read the original version or not, that you enjoy the story!
> 
> Thanks for reading!

****— _Boxing Day —_

The owl perched on the back of a kitchen chair, grooming itself. Draco watched it from across the room, leaning into a corner of the counter, a cup of tea clutched in both hands like a shield. The bird fixed him with a flat, yellow eye. He stared back, unblinking, daring it to move. It went back to combing its wicked beak through its feathers, dismissing him.

How had it gotten into the cottage, he wondered? Harry had the place warded so tightly that a cockroach couldn’t get through without written permission. But there it was, a full-grown owl with a letter tied to its leg. How? And who had sent it?

The letter wasn’t for him, of that he was sure. And the owl seemed to think his presence in Harry’s house was unnecessary, at the very least. Possibly dangerous. It certainly wasn’t letting him anywhere near that letter.

Draco took a sip of his tea and continued to stare it down. Bare feet slapped on the stone-flagged floors, warning him that Harry was up and headed his way.

Good. He could deal with the ruddy bird.

The other man blew into the kitchen—a mass of power, exuberance and messy hair, wrapped in a tatty terrycloth robe—and Draco’s pulse jumped. His eyes never wavered from the owl, however.

“Morning, Dragon.” Harry crossed to him, slipped an arm around his waist, and pressed a kiss to his temple without jostling his teacup. “Who’s owl is that?”

“You tell me,” Draco retorted.

Harry chuckled, forcing Draco to glance away from the offending owl to throw him a reproachful look. “It’s not going to explode, you know.”

Draco snorted softly in disgust and looked pointedly away. “I’d like to know how it found you. That’s all. I thought you kept this cottage warded.”

“I do, but letters have to get through.”

The owl hooted at Harry and thrust out its leg to show the scroll tied to it. As Harry answered its summons and crossed to it, he added, “Unless I lock the wards down completely, like I did when you first got here, owls can find me. They just don’t remember where they’ve been.”

“You _Obliviate_ owls?”

Seriously? Who _Obliviated_ owls, for Fuck’s sake? And how was that even possible?

“ _Confund_ them, more like. I alter their memories so they think they delivered the letter to me at Grimmauld Place. That way, if anyone tries to use the owl to trace my location, it can’t lead them here.”

“Just a bit paranoid, aren’t you, Potter?” Draco asked, as he set down his teacup and drifted closer to the table in Harry’s wake.

“Maybe, but it works. Even the Ministry doesn’t know where I really live, and that’s the way I like it.” He took the scroll from the owl’s outstretched leg, firing a smile over his shoulder at Draco as he did so. “Especially now.”

“Hmph.” Draco twitched his head at the letter. “So? Who’s it from?”

Harry turned the little scroll between his fingers. “I don’t recognize the handwriting.”

Draco peered over his shoulder, more curious than worried, now that Harry was with him. Then his eyes fell on the writing on the parchment, and he felt his stomach drop through the floor. He stepped back.

“It’s from my mother.”

Harry gave him a worried look, clearly hearing the note of panic in his voice, then turned back to the letter. “Narcissa? Really?”

He broke the seal almost eagerly and spread the parchment flat. Draco hovered just far enough away that he could see the elegant, flowing script filling the page but could not read it, his eyes jumping from his mother’s words to his husband’s face and taking in his every reaction.

He wanted to flee. He wanted to grab the letter from Harry’s hand and devour it. He wanted to _Obliviate_ himself, like that poor owl, so he could forget the letter’s existence. He wanted…

Harry finished reading and looked up at him. His gaze was inscrutable.

“What does she want?”

Harry held out the letter to him. “Read it.”

Draco did not move to take it. “It’s addressed to you.”

“She meant it for you more than me.” He twitched the parchment a little, drawing Draco’s eyes. “Go on.”

Slowly, reluctantly, Draco took the scroll from Harry’s outstretched hand. He just held it for a long moment, letting it curl back on itself and hide the familiar copper-plate script, his eyes on the paper but seeing nothing. Then Harry’s voice touched him again.

“It’s all right, Dragon, I promise.”

Drawing in a shaking breath, he spread the paper flat and began to read.

_Dear Mr. Potter,_

_I am fully aware that you want nothing to do with me. You made that abundantly clear at our last meeting. I am also aware that I may ruin any chance of rapprochement by contacting you without invitation, but I can no longer abide in ignorance. I must know what has become of my son, how he fares, by what means he survives now that his legal troubles have been resolved. I must see him and I believe that you can arrange this for me._

_I know you think me an unnatural parent. You hold me responsible for what Draco suffered at his father’s hands, and I cannot dispute that. But I am a parent, for all my faults, and I love my son more than my life. He is my only child, the only person left in this world that I do truly love, and my only reason to continue living since my husband’s death. Without him, I am bereft._

_Please, Mr. Potter, take my words to Draco and tell him that I long to see him. I will meet him at any time and place, under any constraints that he deems necessary. I will come back to Britain, whatever the consequences to myself, if that is what he wants. I only ask to be close enough to touch him again._

_You know me well enough to guess what it costs me to say these things, to prostrate myself in this way before a man who feels nothing but contempt for me. I do not offer you excuses or apologies or promises of future amendment. I appeal to your better nature, the same nature that taught you to love my son no matter how utterly he debased himself. Do not stand in my way. Do not keep him from me out of anger or resentment. Give him my message and let him choose for himself._

_That is all I ask, all I will ever ask of you._

_With deepest gratitude,  
_ _Narcissa Malfoy_

His eyes were stinging by the time he finished, but he blinked back the threatened tears and continued to stare at the page, unseeing, until they dried. He could feel Harry standing close by his shoulder, shifting from foot to foot, anxious to know his thoughts. He wanted to reach out, to reassure him, maybe to slip into his husband’s arms and close his eyes against the vision of his mother conjured by her words.

It was terrible. Cold and lonely and despairing. A blade to his heart that made him bleed and cry out in anger at the same time.

How could she demand so much of him? How could she put this burden on his shoulders? He was not her beloved son anymore! He was not the boy she knew! He was the thing her husband’s cruelty and her own indifference had made him, a thing she would not recognize… could not love…

“Well?” Harry’s voice was soft and plaintive, sounding just beside his ear.

Draco lifted blank, shuttered eyes to his face, knowing that Harry, of all people, would still be able to see the pain behind them. “What do you want me to say?”

His voice was as cold as his eyes, and as unconvincing. Harry gave him a look full of understanding. Then he slipped an arm around Draco’s shoulders, pulled him close, stroked his back beneath the long fall of his hair.

“Do you want to see her?” he asked softly.

Of course he bloody well wanted to see her! What did Harry think—that he’d stopped loving her, just because she had abandoned him? Harry Potter should know better than anyone that love didn’t work that way. But love was not enough, had never been enough. He could love his mother so much that his heart cracked with it, and still she might reject him. Turn away from him. Refuse to see the man he had become. And that…

That would destroy him.

“Do you think I should?” he finally asked, through numb lips.

“It isn’t about what I think.”

“Just _tell_ me, Potter. Tell me what to do.”

“I can’t. Draco.”

He guided Draco into his arms, wrapping him tightly in them and holding him against his chest. Draco gratefully buried his face in the curve of his neck and closed his eyes. They were burning with fresh tears, but no one could see them now, so he let them come.

“Draco,” Harry said again, kissing his head.

“Is that all you can say?” Draco mumbled into the collar of his robe.

“It’s my favorite word in the English language.”

“It’s Latin, you tit.”

Harry laughed, shaking both their bodies with it. “Draco, Dragon, it works either way. And you still haven’t answered my question. Do you want to see your mother?”

Draco hesitated, fear robbing him of his voice for the space of a breath. Then he wilted into Harry’s arms and whispered, damply, “Yes.”

“Do you want me to come with you?”

He shivered in gratitude and relief, answered more firmly, “Yes.”

“Good.” Harry’s arms tightened protectively around him. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

*** *** ***

— _A Few Days Later —_

They agreed to meet Narcissa at the church where her husband’s ashes lay, apparating from Gloucestershire to Bayonne, then to a deserted lane on the outskirts of the tiny mountain village. They held hands as they walked, silent with nerves, up the frozen lane in the grey light of a Winter afternoon. Snow crunched beneath their boots and mist plumed from their mouths with every breath. It was late December in the Pyrenees and bloody cold.

Both men were dressed as Muggles, Harry in a well-tailored wool overcoat and Gryffindor scarf wrapped up around his chin, Draco in the clothes he’d worn to the Burrow at Christmas. Harry had offered to loan him proper wizard’s robes for the occasion, but Draco had turned him down flat.

“This is who I am, now. Mother will have to accept it,” he had insisted.

As the churchyard came into view, Draco broke stride. Harry halted a pace beyond him, glancing back at his pale face, then ahead at the neat stone wall and wicket gate. There was no one waiting for them.

“She didn’t come,” Draco murmured.

“She will.”

With a tug of his hand, Harry got Draco moving again and led him up to the gate. The churchyard was even bleaker and less welcoming than the last time Harry had seen it, draped in snow and utterly deserted under a louring sky. He put his hand to the gate, ready to push through it, but pulled back when he saw a shadow move in the church doorway.

The shadow detached itself from the darkness of the enclosed porch and took shape as it moved out into the weak sunlight—a tall, graceful woman all in funereal black, a lace veil falling from her hat brim to mask her face. She drifted, ghostlike, through the ancient tombstones toward them and halted just inside the gate. There was a beat of awkward stillness. Then she reached up to drape the veil back over her hat.

“Hello, Draco,” Narcissa Malfoy said. Her voice was low and musical, her beautiful face serene between wings of blonde hair and black lace, but her eyes were open wounds.

Harry felt a jolt of pity for her that he quickly squelched.

This woman did not deserve his pity. She did not deserve this act of generosity on Draco’s part. Only his love for his husband kept Harry there at the gate, so close to her, with his mouth shut on the bitter words he longed to utter.

“Hello, Mother,” Draco said quietly. He kept his hands shoved in his coat pockets and his eyes down.

_He’s afraid to look at her_ , Harry realized, _afraid to let her really see him._

Always the gracious lady, Narcissa tore her gaze from her son to fix it on Harry. “Mr. Potter. Thank you for coming.”

Harry just nodded, not trusting himself to unclamp his jaw.

Her gaze shifted back to Draco, taking in his long, loose hair, Muggle clothes and averted face. “You’ve changed so much, Draco. I don’t think I would have recognized you, without Mr. Potter at your side.”

Draco finally lifted his eyes to meet hers, and Harry was suddenly struck by how alike they were—in the way they locked their pain up behind shuttered eyes and rigid features, if not in the features themselves.

“Is that all you have to say to me after all these years?” Draco demanded in a low, strained voice. “That you don’t approve of my appearance?”

“That’s not what I meant.” One white hand fluttered up, reaching for him, then fell again. “I was only thinking of the time we’ve lost.”

Draco looked away again, breaking the charged connection between them. “We’ve lost more than time. I’m not the boy you remember, Mother.” He cut a quick glance at her from the corners of his eyes and added, harshly, “And I doubt you ever were the woman I remember.”

To Harry’s horror, Narcissa’s eyes brightened with tears. “Perhaps not, but we can learn to know the people we are. If you’re willing to give us that chance.”

Draco took a long, shaking breath and reached blindly for Harry’s hand. Harry took his, holding it tightly to anchor him, and shot a challenging look at Narcissa.

“What did you have in mind, Mrs. Malfoy? A heart-to-heart in the graveyard?”

She folded her hands over her midriff and lifted her chin proudly. “I have tea and a good fire waiting at my cottage, if you gentlemen would care to join me.”

Harry glanced over at his husband. The last thing he wanted was to sit down to tea with Narcissa Malfoy, but he wouldn’t abandon Draco, or drag him away before he’d really spoken to his mother. He’d agreed to come. He couldn’t bollock it up, now.

“Dragon?”

After a tense moment, Draco gave a jerky nod.

Narcissa’s posture visibly relaxed and she allowed herself a fractional smile of relief. “You know the way, Mr. Potter. Apparate directly into the parlor so my Ministry Keepers don’t see you arrive. I’ll go ahead to open the wards.”

The parlor was exactly as Harry remembered it, right down to the lavish spread of sandwiches and cakes filling the table and the huge fire burning on the hearth. It struck Harry with welcome heat the instant his feet touched the rose-patterned rug. He had only a split second to look around, to assure himself that he’d come to the right place, before a shriek of delight cut the air and a tiny figure in a snow-white shift hurled itself at Draco.

“ _Master Draco!_ ” The house-elf struck him with all her weight and wrapped skinny arms around his knees. “You is alive! You is here! Oh, Master Draco!”

Then she burst into tears.

“Lissy?” Draco said, stunned. “What are you doing here?”

“Lissy is so glad to see you!” she sobbed, burying her face in his legs and dampening his jeans with her copious tears. “She is thinking you were dead! She is crying and crying, until the Master is making Lissy punish herself…”

“None of that, now, Lissy,” Narcissa chided. “I told you that Draco is alive.”

Lissy only howled all the louder and clung harder to Draco’s legs, making him stagger against Harry. Draco patted her bony back, clutching at Harry with his other hand for balance.

“I’m glad to see you, too, Lissy. I didn’t expect to find you here.”

“Lissy is asking her mistress if she may greet Master Draco. She is asking if she may serve her young master his tea and meet Harry Potter and thank him for bringing Master Draco home. Lissy is _so happy!_ ” she finished on a wail.

Draco shot Harry a harassed look, still patting Lissy’s heaving back.

“If you’d like to serve Draco his tea, you must stop crying, Lissy,” Narcissa said firmly. “And say hello to Mr. Potter.”

The elf lifted her head and turned huge, tear-drenched eyes of a glowing green on Harry. She gulped and squeaked, “Lissy is very pleased to meet Harry Potter.”

Harry nodded and held out his hand, waiting for her to loosen her death grip on Draco’s knees to take it. “I’m pleased to meet you, too.” He shook her hand solemnly.

Lissy stared at their clasped hands in wide-eyed wonder, her mouth falling open. “Dobby is telling Lissy what a great man Harry Potter is,” she whispered reverently.

“You were a friend of Dobby’s?”

“Oh, yes. Dobby is being Lissy’s most faithful friend. He is sneaking back into the Manor to comfort her and bring her news from Hogwarts.” Those impossibly huge, adoring eyes lifted to Harry’s face again. “Dobby is always saying how good and brave Harry Potter is, how he is fighting for all magical creatures, even the house-elves, and how he is loving Master Draco. When Lissy is being afraid for her dear young master, Dobby is promising that Harry Potter would protect him and bring him safely home.”

Tears began to slip down her cheeks again. “She is thinking that Harry Potter failed when the young master died. But now Harry Potter is here and Master Draco is home.” She sniffled, gulped back a sob, and finished on a tremulous note, “And Lissy is so happy…”

“That’s quite enough,” Narcissa said. “Bring in the teapot, now.”

“Lissy is taking the masters’ coats, first,” the elf insisted, giving a final sniff and holding out her hands for their cold weather gear.

Harry and Draco surrendered to the bizarre normalcy of the gesture, shrugging out of their heavy coats and handing them to the waiting elf. She took them with a bright smile, then trotted out of the room, leaving the two men alone with Narcissa.

“Please make yourselves comfortable,” Narcissa said in her best Gracious Lady manner, gesturing toward a pair of spindly Rococo chairs.

Harry shot Draco a wry look and moved to sit down. Draco shadowed him, taking the chair to his left, while Narcissa arrayed herself on a small loveseat across the tea table from them. Lissy’s outburst had effectively banished the awkwardness in the room, and Harry felt almost relaxed as he accepted the delicate china plate Narcissa held out to him.

“How is it you still have a house-elf?” he asked in a conversational tone, as he began placing sandwiches on his plate. “I thought they were freed when the Ministry confiscated the Manor.”

“They were,” Narcissa replied equably. “Lissy was one of only two elves still in service to the family at the time of our arrest. She was freed and allowed to seek employment where she liked, while Lucius and I went to Azkaban.”

“And?” Harry prompted, biting into a cucumber sandwich.

“And Lissy is still free. You’ll notice that she wears clothes.”

Harry nodded as he chewed and swallowed.

“She sought me out upon my release from prison and offered her services to her old mistress, knowing that I could not legally employ her. She comes and goes as she pleases, serving me because it makes her happy, taking nothing from me but food, shelter and companionship.”

“But the Ministry…”

“The Ministry doesn’t know.”

Lissy padded up to the table, carrying a steaming teapot that she set carefully on the tray. Then, with a twinkling look at Draco and respectful bob of her head for Harry, she vanished again. Draco stared thoughtfully at the spot she had just vacated, a pâté sandwich forgotten in his hand.

“Why would the Ministry care that my mother employs a house-elf?” he asked Harry.

It was Narcissa who answered him. “Because the Ministry, in its infinite wisdom, feels that such ties to our old, privileged lifestyle are dangerous for our kind. There are still house-elves bound in servitude to ancient, pureblood families, but very few, and only to those families that chose the winning side in the war. Those of us who chose poorly gave up the right to such servants along with our homes and our fortunes and our place in society.”

“What will they do to you, if they find her here?”

“I don’t know. Arrest me again?” She lifted a sceptical eyebrow and reached for the teapot. “I doubt it would come to that, and Lissy cannot be punished for going where she likes. She is, after all, a free elf.”

Harry caught the glimmer of sardonic humor in her voice and grinned at his plate.

“Why do you let her stay?” Draco asked, frowning. “Isn’t it dangerous for both of you?”

“She is a friend,” Narcissa replied simply.

Draco subsided, munching on his sandwich and watching Narcissa as she prepared the tea. Harry reached over to rest his hand on Draco’s knee. The ring on his finger caught the light of the candles placed about the room, drawing Narcissa’s eye. She gazed at it impassively for a beat, then passed Draco his cup and watched as he lifted it to his lips, eyes following the gleam of his matching ring.

After a moment’s hesitation, she began preparing Harry’s tea as if she had noticed nothing.

He accepted the cup from her and took a sip, silently congratulating her on remembering his preferences so perfectly.

“Is Lissy your only company here, Mother?” Draco asked.

“Much of the time. My sister and her grandson visit occasionally, as do some of my more distant relations and a few friends who took no part in the war.”

“Andromeda?” Draco looked confused. “I thought you never spoke.”

“We have reconciled, to some extent. I would not call us close, but the Blacks take care of their own, and we are both nearly alone in the world now. Little Teddy is a joy. Have you met him?”

Draco shook his head, sipped his tea, dropped his gaze.

“You should. He’s family. And my sister would like to know her nephew.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that.”

“Are you afraid that she’ll reject you for your Malfoy name?”

Draco gave her a long, hard look, then said bluntly, “I’m afraid she won’t want her precious grandson associating with a Knockturn Alley whore.”

Narcissa didn’t flinch, and Harry had to admire her for that. She fell very still, her cup poised over its saucer, then she set it down deliberately and returned both to the table. When she folded her hands in her lap, Harry could see them trembling.

“Mr. Potter, I would like to speak to my son privately.”

Harry instinctively reached for Draco’s hand and squeezed it. “Only if that’s what Draco wants.”

She nodded once, and they both turned to look at Draco, while he stared doggedly at the hand that held his so tightly and the ring circling its fourth finger.

“Dragon?” Harry prompted softly.

Draco sucked in an unsteady breath, then met Harry’s eyes and nodded.

Getting to his feet, Harry bent to brush a kiss to Draco’s mouth. Then he let go of his hand and turned for the door. “I’ll take a stroll around the village. Send Lissy for me, if you need me to come back. And Narcissa,” he paused, just inside the room, to look over his shoulder at her, “you’d better get used to calling me Harry, now that I’m married to your son.”

* * *

Harry was gone and Draco was alone with his mother. He’d expected this. Hoped for it, maybe. But he still felt a knot form in his stomach when she shifted to one end of the loveseat and patted the cushion next to her.

“Please, darling, join me.”

Draco got to his feet, feeling strangely clumsy, and stepped around the tea table. He was suddenly, acutely aware of his own body—of all the ways he had used it and how obvious those uses must be to his mother—and of her measuring eyes on him. As he wedged himself into the corner of the little sofa, he swept his hair forward over his right shoulder and out of the way in a habitual, graceful gesture. She watched this expressionlessly, as she watched and—he was sure—judged his other, unconscious gestures.

She was seeing the feminine in him. The performer. The prostitute. The plaything.

He should put some distance between them. Retreat to the far side of the table—maybe to the far side of the room—where she could not strip him bare with those merciless eyes quite so easily. But this was his mother, whom he had not seen in more than three years, and she wanted him close enough to touch.

He could not deny her that.

She reached for his left hand and he stiffened, fought the urge to pull away. Narcissa held onto him and turned the hand so she could examine his ring. She brushed it with her thumb.

“When did you marry?”

“Before Christmas.”

“I’ve seen nothing about it in the press.”

“No one knows except the Weasleys. And the Minister for Magic.”

“Kingsley Shacklebolt?”

“He performed the ceremony.”

She held his hand for another moment, then reluctantly let it go but continued to gaze at it. “Mr. Potter came to me the day of your father’s funeral. Did you know?”

“We’re both Mr. Potter now. Call him Harry.”

Her eyes flickered up at that, then back down to his hands clenched together in his lap. “When he told me he loved you and was still looking for you… that was the first breath of hope I had allowed myself since that terrible day.”

“The day your master died?” Draco prompted, a bitter edge to his voice.

“The day my son died,” she gently corrected him.

She reached for his hand again and Draco let her take it. Let her turn it, stroke it, trace the long lines of his bones and touch his ring.

“I didn’t understand then, but… You ran back into the battle for him, didn’t you?”

Draco sighed. “What does it matter now, Mother?”

“You ran back for him because he was the only one who ever tried to protect or defend you. You chose to die with him rather than entrust your life to us, your parents, the people who were supposed to shield you from the evil in this world.”

Draco sighed again. He gave her fingers a quick squeeze—almost an apology—then pulled free of them.

“Yes, all right. If you must hear it, I ran back into the battle to die with Harry. I thought I owed it to him, even if he was dead and the war was lost. And an anonymous grave under the rubble of Hogwarts was infinitely preferable to what waited for me back at the Manor.”

“He told me…” Narcissa broke off, pressed her lips tightly together, looked away. Her voice had thickened when she ventured, “Harry told me things that I still find hard to believe. Things your father and the Dark Lord did to you.”

Draco stared at her for a long, wordless minute. Then, his movements sharp, furious, he tugged the sleeve up his left arm and thrust it out at her. The long, ragged scar made by Fenrir Greyback’s nail in his flesh had faded over time, smoothed and flattened, but nothing could soften the brutality of it or make it anything less than hideous. Draco watched his mother’s face as she gazed at it—watched denial, disgust, acceptance and guilt wash over her in rapid succession—and waited until she lifted her eyes to his face again.

“Greyback did that the night he raped me.” She blanched but held his gaze without flinching. “There are other scars, but I’ll spare you the sight of them.”

She nodded jerkily.

“Father was there the whole time. I begged him for help. He turned his back so he didn’t have to watch.”

“Draco, my darling,” she began, reaching for him once more.

Draco stopped her with a look. “No, Mother, I don’t want your pity or your pleas for forgiveness or your offers of motherly love. It’s too late for any of that. I lived in your house, being prostituted by my own father right under your nose, for two years. You chose not to see it then, when you might actually have helped, so I don’t want to hear how shocked and sorry you are now.”

“Harry told me,” she whispered, tears sparkling in her pale lashes but not yet daring to mar her perfect cheeks. “I hoped it was his passionate nature, his hatred of Lucius and his love for you coloring his account.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Your father loved…”

“ _Don’t you dare say it!_ ” Draco hissed, his entire body tensing with disgust.

“He _did_.” The tears began to fall now, slipping through her lashes to paint candlelit streaks on her face.

_Tears for Fucking Lucius_ , he thought bitterly, _not for me._

“I can’t begin to know why he would let those men use you the way they did, but I know that he loved you, Draco. He asked for you in his final illness, looked for you every time the fevers and fogs cleared. All he wanted was to see you one more time before he died. You were his only son. You were everything to him.”

“Of course I was, when he’d squandered everything else of value that he owned. I was an asset to him, Mother. A commodity. And he didn’t _let_ those men use me, he _arranged it!_ He _sold me!_ And he was just the first of many! Boggs picked up where he left off, then Nero…”

“Boggs?” Narcissa looked confused at that. “Phineas Boggs? The Broom Varnish Baron?”

“The fat, fucking bastard who bought Malfoy Manor and me along with it,” Draco snarled, his prim manners and careful language forgotten in rage. “He was one of Father’s earliest customers, trading political favors for a go at his son, then he _oh so generously_ took me in after the war…”

“He claims he didn’t know you were working in the Manor kitchens.”

“Didn’t _know?_ ” Draco scoffed. “When he was buggering me in my parents’ bed every night and laughing about it? That’s rich!”

Narcissa pressed a shaking hand over her mouth, but not before Draco heard her low sob.

His anger abruptly cooled, replaced by defeat and the inexplicable urge to comfort her.

Why couldn’t he hate her? Why did her pain wound him so deeply? She had let his father do these terrible things to him, stood by in silence while he was prostituted and raped and enslaved to a bedlamite. It was, at least in part, because of her that he’d sold himself to Phineas, rather than come forward and admit to the world that Draco Malfoy was alive.

So why did he care if she wept?

“Never mind, Mother,” he said wearily. “I survived it, thanks in large part to Father. He taught me my trade, after all.”

“Oh!” Narcissa gasped, then suddenly dissolved into tears such as Draco had never seen her shed before. She doubled over, one hand still pressed to her mouth, the other clutching the robes at her midriff, and began to rock with pain. Her shoulders shook. Tears streamed down her cheeks, dripped from her hand. Strange, muffled, almost animal noises rose in her throat and caught behind her hand.

Draco stared at her, dumbfounded, for a handful of seconds. Then, driven by that old, irresistible need to protect his adored mother, he reached out to touch her. Suddenly, she was crumpled in his arms, lying against his chest, sobbing so hard that he thought her body might fly apart. He wrapped both arms around her and propped his chin on her bent head. Closed his own eyes. Began to rock gently, soothing her with the rhythmic movement, even if he couldn’t bring himself to offer her words of comfort.

He gradually became aware that his mother was speaking, gasping words out between her shuddering sobs.

“I didn’t know! I swear I didn’t! He told me you were ill, and I thought… thought you were hiding something from us… the owls… the letters… he said it was a girl, someone we wouldn’t accept… Oh, my darling boy, I’m so sorry! S-so terribly sorry!”

“I believe you,” Draco said heavily.

“I never would have let them… I would have killed for you… I lied to the Dark Lord, told him Potter was dead, just so I could g-get into the castle and f-find you… my darling boy! My beautiful, p-perfect son! H-how could anyone hurt you that way? How c-could they? How…?”

She dissolved into incoherent sobs again. Draco held her and rocked her, saying nothing in answer to her flood of grief and regret. What was there to say, after all? He loved her and would ultimately forgive her because he didn’t know how to hate her. But her tears were useless to him now.

At a light touch on his knee, Draco’s eyes snapped open to find Lissy standing close beside him. Her own eyes were huge and mournful, but full of an understanding that told Draco this was not the first time his mother had broken down this way. She held a small crystal flask in one hand.

“Give her this, Master Draco,” she squeaked, holding out the flask to him. “It will calm her.”

Draco took it and put it to his mother’s lips. She let him tilt the contents into her mouth, swallowed obediently, then turned her face into his shoulder and gave another tearing sob.

“Does she do this often, Lissy?”

“She is grieving, Master Draco,” the little elf replied sadly. “She is crying every night since the Master died, crying for him and for you.”

“Hush, Lissy,” Narcissa admonished, struggling to contain herself now that the potion was taking effect. “Don’t worry Master Draco.”

She pushed herself away from Draco and sat up. Then she pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve to blot the tears from her cheeks. She looked uncharacteristically bedraggled and woebegone but was already regaining control. One more determined sniff and her shoulders straightened.

“You shouldn’t be in this house alone, Mother,” Draco said.

“I am not alone. I have Lissy. And there is little choice for me, now.”

“You could come back to England. Live with your sister, maybe.”

Narcissa shook her head. “The Ministry placed me here for my own safety, after my release from Azkaban. This is where they want me, so this is where I must stay.”

She picked up her forgotten cup and took a sip, grimacing at the cold tea. Lissy caught her expression and gave a snap of her fingers to instantly warm it. Narcissa drank, nodded in satisfaction, and smiled her thanks at the elf.

Then she went on, “I had you meet me at the church today, rather than giving you floo access, because I did not want to advertise your visit to the Ministry. They monitor my floo connection, my mail, my wand, all magic performed in my vicinity… They are very thorough, and of course, they do it all for my own protection.”

Draco frowned at that, turning over the implications of what she’d said. He had been out of touch with the wizarding world for too long. Much had happened, many laws enacted and attitudes entrenched, that he knew nothing about. This so-called ‘protection’ sounded like another form of imprisonment to him, but then again, it was perfectly possible that convicted Death Eaters like his mother really were at risk from an angry and vengeful public.

“So, are you a prisoner, or not?”

“I am not held by bars and spells, or even by formal restrictions. It is more the knowledge that I am being watched and the understanding that certain activities will draw unwanted attention that confines me. Anyone may visit this cottage, but few care to when they know that the Ministry is taking note of their comings and goings, putting them on a list, perhaps flagging them for further investigation. Even my sister hesitates to be seen in my company.”

“Will my presence cause trouble for you?”

She smiled wryly at that. “You and I are both suspect, I am quite sure, regardless of our current legal status. I have served my time. You were cleared of all charges. But we are Death Eaters and Dark wizards in the eyes of our world and a danger to all around us.”

“So now we are plotting world domination in your parlor.”

Her smile widened, softened. “Well, perhaps not until your second visit. This first one might be construed as a son reuniting with his mother after years apart. And Harry’s presence lends us some protection.”

“Only until they find out about the wedding,” Draco said sourly, “then he’ll be right down in the shite with us.”

“Don’t underestimate him. Many have died for that mistake. And speaking of the Savior,” she turned toward the doorway, a determinedly cheerful smile plastered on her face, “here is the other Mr. Potter now.” 

Harry strode into the room on the heels of her words, his cheeks flushed with cold above his red scarf, his eyes bright and intent as they swept the scene. Draco was quite sure that he knew at a glance how they had spent their time alone together. He certainly saw the tear stains on Narcissa’s cheeks. The slightly cynical tilt to his mouth betrayed him.

“How was your walk, Harry?” Narcissa asked politely.

“Cold.” Harry rubbed his hands together briskly. “But it’s a lovely village. I was quite impressed with the church.”

“Ah, yes. Late Gothic. The Rose window is particularly lovely.”

“I noticed,” Harry said in an offhand way that told Draco he was not even remotely interested in Late Gothic architecture or Rose windows but was being painstakingly polite to his mother, anyway. Turning to Draco with a lifted brow, he said, “It’s getting late, Dragon. Are you ready to go?”

Draco nodded and rose to his feet.

“You barely touched your tea, Harry,” Narcissa chided. “Won’t you both stay a while longer?”

“I’m sorry, but no. Purefoy, your Unmentionable watchdog, spotted me in the village. I think I threw him off my trail long enough to reach the cottage, but he’s certainly guessed why I’m here and may turn up at any time. I don’t want Draco here, if he does.”

“No. Quite right.”

She rose and moved around the loveseat, drawing Draco with her toward the doorway. No sooner had she halted and turned to clasp Draco’s hands, than Lissy _cracked_ into existence beside him, his peacoat clutched in her skinny arms. The elf waited for Narcissa to kiss Draco lightly on either cheek, then she held out the coat to him, forcing him to let go of his mother’s hands.

“Thank you, Lissy. It was nice to see you again.”

Her big eyes welled with tears again. “Lissy is so happy that Master Draco is returned. She is hoping he will come to visit again soon.”

“I hope so, too.”

“As do I,” Narcissa murmured, now gazing at him with tear-bright eyes. “I understand if you cannot, but I thank you for risking it this once. Both of you.”

She smiled at Harry, held out a hand to him, and Draco could have sworn that the warmth in that smile was sincere. They shook hands cordially, while Draco pulled on his heavy coat. Then Narcissa turned to him once more.

She touched his cheek. “Good bye, my darling.”

“Good bye, Mother.” Draco pulled her into a fierce hug that seemed to surprise her. After a moment of startled stiffness, she softened and slipped her arms around his shoulders. Draco just held her for a long minute, savoring the closeness of her, then loosened his hold and stepped back. “Take care of her, Lissy.”

The elf bowed, her tears falling faster, but her manner respectful and composed. “Lissy will do this.”

Then Harry had an arm around Draco’s waist, pulling him close, and they were stepping into the crushing darkness together.

* * *

Narcissa watched the two men apparate away, then she turned back to the full table with a sigh. They had barely touched the neat trays of sandwiches and cakes. Draco had eaten almost nothing, she noticed, and only sipped at his tea. Potter had consumed a few finger sandwiches but little else. She would have to put it all away and hope she had a guest to share it with before it spoiled. Or she could have tea with Lissy.

She glanced around to find the elf still standing by the door, staring woefully at the spot where Draco had stood a moment before. Every part of her, from her bat-ears to her bare toes, seemed to droop.

“Come now, Lissy,” Narcissa chided, “there’s no call to sulk. Master Draco is well, and Harry Potter will see that he stays that way.”

Lissy nodded glumly. “Mistress is right. Lissy is being foolish.” She sniffed and pulled up the hem of her shift to wipe her nose.

“Come sit down. Share this lovely tea with me. You worked so hard on it, it seems a shame to let it go to waste.”

The elf looked startled, then frightened, and Narcissa put on her most calm, smiling face to reassure her. She had shared simple meals with the elf before, but only in the kitchen, and never the lavish Company meals Lissy prepared for her very infrequent visitors. But Narcissa couldn’t face another evening alone. The wound of Draco’s departure was too raw.

“Sit down, Lissy. There.” She pointed at Draco’s abandoned chair. “And have a cup of tea with me.”

Her firm tone forced the obedient elf to move, even if her cowering posture and darting eyes said she was longing to flee. Lissy sidled over to the tea table and clambered into the spindly, little chair. Her feet hung several inches from the floor. She swung them slightly, then fell still and darted another nervous look around her.

“Don’t be frightened,” Narcissa said gently. “It’s only the two of us, and I’m grateful for your company. Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Lissy will pour it!” the elf squeaked. Then, with a snap of her fingers, she scoured the cups clean and lofted the teapot into the air. Narcissa waited until freshly-warmed tea filled her cup and Lissy had a cup of her own in her hands, then she held out a plate full of pâté sandwiches—Lissy’s favorite, she knew—with a smile.

“Help yourself. Draco barely touched them.”

This subtle reminder that her adored young master favored the same treats that she did herself made the elf’s ears prick up and her eyes glow. She took a tiny, triangular sandwich and began to nibble on one corner. When Narcissa sipped at her tea, Lissy mirrored her.

“Thank you for joining me, Lissy,” Narcissa finally said, when she deemed the elf relaxed enough for conversation, “and for all your help today. I’m sorry that I behaved so badly in front of Draco. I know it worried him. And you.”

Lissy ducked her head, peered up at Narcissa shyly. “Mistress is grieving.”

“But not for Draco. Not any longer. We can both stop grieving for him, now.” She cocked her head thoughtfully and smiled at the elf. “You love him very much, don’t you?”

If elves could blush, Lissy would have done so now. Instead, she wound her foot around the chair leg and ducked her head still further. “Lissy is caring for Master Draco since he is born. She is feeding and bathing and rocking him when he is a tiny baby. She is nursing him when he is sick. She is healing him when he is punished.”

“Punished?” Narcissa stiffened at the word. She knew that Draco and Lucius were often at odds in later years, but she remembered no punishments that resulted in physical injuries—not even when Draco was a child and sometimes broke valuable heirlooms.

“What do you mean, Lissy? How was Draco punished?”

The wide, green eyes slid away from Narcissa’s, hunting for an avenue of escape once more. “The Master is ordering Lissy not to say.”

“The Master is dead. His orders no longer stand. And I am asking you, as a friend, to tell me what happened to my son.”

The elf ducked her head once more, tears running down either side of her nose now and dripping into her lap. “Lissy is begging,” she whimpered. “She is begging and begging to be allowed to tell her Mistress, but Master is saying that she must not! He is saying that Master Draco is naughty and deserves to be punished, and Lissy must never, never tell!”

“Oh, no!” Narcissa gasped, understanding hitting her like a mailed fist, though she had tried so hard for so long to deny it. “It can’t be! He wouldn’t pretend that Draco deserved it… that he…”

“Mistress is knowing?” Lissy risked a peek up at her with enormous, brimming eyes. “She is knowing what the cruel men is doing to my young master?”

“Not… not everything.” Narcissa swallowed painfully, feeling tears thicken her throat and burn her eyes. “Only that it was terrible. _Wrong!_ And that he did not deserve it!”

“It is punishment.” The elf straightened a little more, and her gaze fixed intently on Narcissa. “Master is telling Lissy this.”

“The Master lied!”

Lissy just stared at her, stunned, her eyes going impossibly wider, while tears continued to drip from them.

“Not punishment?” she finally squeaked.

Narcissa shook her head, unable to speak in the face of Lissy’s distress and her own horror at what her husband had done.

“Lissy is letting those men hurt Master Draco when it is not punishment?”

A sob shook her little chest. Her tears quickened. She uttered an agonized wail, grabbed her shift in both fists, and ducked her head to bury her face in the damp fabric.

“Lissy is letting them do it!” she howled between wracking sobs. “Lissy is letting them hurt her young master, over and over again, and she is doing nothing to help! Lissy is a _bad elf! Bad! Stupid! Bad!_ ”

With each word, she struck her clenched fists against her forehead, hammering at herself in her rage and remorse.

“Lissy must punish herself! She must pay for letting those cruel men hurt her young master!”

“No!” Narcissa cried, reaching for her and catching her flailing hands. “No, Lissy, you did nothing wrong!”

“Master Draco is being hurt! Frightened! They is tying him up, beating him, hurting him, making him bleed until Lissy is having to throw away the bedclothes because she is not getting them clean!”

“Oh, no… please…” Narcissa gasped, but the elf was beyond hearing.

“They is doing terrible, cruel things to him! They is making him cry and beg! Lissy is crying and begging, too! She is begging him to be good, to obey the Master, so the men is not coming back, but always they is c-coming and always he is c-crying…”

Lissy was sobbing so hard that she stumbled over her words, and only Narcissa’s iron grip on her wrists kept her from pounding herself bloody. Her face was drenched with tears, her nose running, the front of her shift soaked and smeared with snot. Looking at her, Narcissa had a sudden urge to embrace the little elf, to wipe her face clean and calm her tears, but she knew it would only alarm her, so she contented herself with restraining Lissy so she couldn’t harm herself.

“My poor young master!” Lissy moaned. “All those cruel, cruel men! Lissy is never forgetting how they is pushing her young master to his knees and forcing him to do things that is making him sick with shame, or how they is tying him down across the bed and…”

“Stop!” Narcissa was suddenly on her feet, moving away from the table with its gracious tea service and the huddled, weeping elf. “Stop, please! I don’t want to hear!”

The elf promptly ducked her head and huddled into her chair, gulping back her sobs. “Lissy is not speaking of it, if Mistress is not wishing to hear. Lissy is going back to her cupboard and punishing herself for all the times she is not protecting her dear, young master.”

“ _No!_ ” Narcissa whirled around and crossed to her in a few strides. “No more punishment, Lissy, _please!_ You and Draco have both paid enough for the cruelty of others! I don’t want to see either of you suffer anymore!”

She put out a hand to touch Lissy, then pulled it back and knotted her fingers together.

“Draco is safe now,” she went on, more calmly. “He’s with Harry Potter, where no one can hurt him. We must be glad and try not to worry.”

The elf turned reproachful eyes on her. “Lissy is always worrying about her Family.”

Narcissa tried to smile at that. “I know you do. You’re a good friend to me, Lissy, and to Draco.”

The elf just gazed up at her with huge, tear-bright eyes.

Narcissa tried again, more successfully this time, to produce a smile, and said in her most gracious tone, “Would you be kind enough to clear away the tea things, Lissy? And help yourself to anything you’d like to eat. We won’t try to keep these treats for other guests, just enjoy them ourselves.”

The green eyes fastened on her did not waver, but something in them shifted. Closed. Darkened. Then, just as the unusual shadows in her gaze were beginning to trouble her mistress, Lissy nodded and jumped down from the chair. With a click of her fingers, she made the half-eaten sandwiches disappear and started the empty plates drifting into a neat stack.

Narcissa turned away from the table with its wealth of food—silent reminder of the two young men who had graced her parlor with their presence so briefly—and crossed to the fireplace. There she stood, gazing into the flames, for what seemed like an eternity, while behind her, Lissy swept away all sign of their interrupted tea party.

It was growing late and the room was nearly dark, lit only by the fire, when Narcissa finally stirred. Reaching for a small pot on the mantelpiece, she took a pinch of fine, grey powder and tossed it into the flames. They instantly turned green. Dropping to a crouch on the hearth, she pushed her head into them.

“Andromeda Tonks!” she called sharply.

**_To be continued…_ **


	2. The Wizard in the Mirror

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi Everyone! I'm glad to see that some of you are excited about the new story. I certainly am.
> 
> A couple of notes...  
> 1) I decided to add a couple of Archive warnings to this story, just to be careful. The violence and non-con don't happen onstage and they aren't described in any detail, but they do happen and I don't want to trigger anyone. In any case, this whole series is dark and violent enough that people who might be sensitive to those things shouldn't read it. Hence the new warnings.
> 
> 2) You'll notice as we go along that I begin each chapter with excerpts and/or headlines from Wizarding newspapers. I do this because the plot is partly driven by what's printed in the papers, and it matters who knows what when. But I get tired of finding ways to weave those stories into the narrative, and sometimes our main characters may not read them at all, so I prefer to give them up front and just reference them where appropriate. We'll see how long I can keep this up. :) Writing like The Daily Prophet is _nasssssty!_
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy the new chapter! Thanks for reading!

* * *

_The Daily Prophet_

**_POTTER’S SECRET AGENDA_ **

_…Insiders at the Ministry reveal that Harry Potter is the driving force behind the investigation into Phineas Boggs’ wartime activities. Potter claims to have information that links Boggs to the Death Eaters and You Know Who himself. But why is the Savior so anxious to see the Broom Varnish Baron behind bars?_

_Boggs has been a fixture at the Ministry since the war, a popular figure in Magical sports, and a generous contributor to many high-profile charities. He is also the owner of Malfoy Manor, once the ancestral seat of the Malfoy family and the childhood home of Draco Malfoy. This, more than anything Boggs may have done during the war, seems to be the crime that has brought him under fire from Potter._

_Sources close to the Boy Who Lived say he spent the holidays with Draco Malfoy, cozying up to the notorious sex worker, and promising that next Christmas they would ‘celebrate in style’ at the Manor. Apparently, Potter is anxious to see Malfoy Manor back in the hands of his paramour, perhaps as a Christmas gift…_

* * *

He sat at the dressing table, gazing idly at the reflection in the mirror as he dried his hair with long strokes of his wand. He barely registered the face looking back at him. All his attention was on what his hands and his magic were doing. After years of limiting his magic to cleaning and protection charms between customers, he still found it strange and a bit thrilling to simply _use_ it. For anything. Any time he liked. With his very own Hawthorn and Unicorn Hair wand. Even drying his hair was a secret delight, and he savored the feel of his magic flowing from his hands to his wand, then into the smooth silver-gilt strands sliding through his fingers.

He was a wizard again. A free man. Free to waste his magic on drying his mane of hair. Free to wave his wand and summon the comb he’d left beside the sink, instead of walking into the other room to fetch it.

He flourished his wand—just because he could—and the comb came flying across the room, into his hand. A bubble of happiness formed beneath his ribs at the sight of it, and he smiled. Catching a glimpse of that smile in the mirror, he set down the comb and turned to confront his own reflection. To really look at it.

A familiar face stared back at him, a face he had studied in mirror after mirror, year after year, and never quite come to know. He recognized the features—winter-grey eyes framed in nearly colorless lashes and brows; straight nose; wide, expressive mouth that could never keep what he was feeling to itself; cheekbones and chin seeming to press too sharply against thin porcelain skin—but not the expression they wore or the creature looking out of those Arctic eyes at him.

Once the creature inside him had been a frightened boy, then a tormented ghost, then a man pulled back from the brink of self-destruction and offered a chance at life. Now he was… what?

A wizard, free to use his magic as he pleased. A casualty of war come back from the dead. A pardoned criminal who, for the first time in years, could walk openly down a street.

A husband. Half of a pair. A lover who shared his bed with a chosen partner, not a paying customer.

Leaning closer to his reflection, Draco pushed back the long fall of hair that framed his face, turned his head this way and that to study himself from different angles.

He was tired—that much was evident at a glance—so tired that he gladly spent hours of his day just lying on the settee with his head in Harry’s lap, doing nothing but breathing in the other man’s scent. But the shadows under his eyes were not the stark, ugly, purple hollows that had marred his face for so long. They were softer, warmer, more transitory, promising that enough sleep and food and care from his doting husband would finally erase them. Because this was not the face of Colin the Prostitute.

It was the face of Draco Potter. Wizard.

He smiled at that thought and let his hair fall around his face again, the way Harry liked it.

Even his hair looked better these days—smoother, softer, brighter—as if his cautious happiness had infused it with new life. Or maybe it was his profligate use of magic that was changing him, filling out his face, melting the ice in his eyes, and polishing his hair ’til it gleamed like liquid light. Wizards were meant to use magic, after all, not to crush it down and let it die. And Draco Potter was a wizard.

A faint tingle in the wards warned Draco that someone was floo-calling. He glanced instinctively at the bedroom door but did not get up to answer it. It had to be Weasley or Granger. Perhaps Molly, intent on talking her darling Harry out of his disastrous marriage. In any case, Harry would take care of it.

He checked to make sure the ends of his hair were dry, listening with half an ear as footsteps came pounding up the stairs and into the sitting room, then got to his feet and moved over to the wardrobe in a leisurely fashion. He was pulling a thick jumper over his head, when Harry burst into the room.

“That was Ron,” he said to the expanse of grey knit covering Draco’s face. “I have to go into the Ministry.”

Draco tugged the jumper down, freeing his head. “Why?”

“Robards is in a snit and threatening to sack me if I don’t.” He pulled a set of severe, dark red robes from the wardrobe. “I was fully prepared to tell him to shove his job up his arse, but that would leave Ron in a bad spot.”

“You don’t really want to lose your job, do you?”

Harry grinned at him and reached over to help pull the length of his hair from his collar. “No. I like my job, most of the time. It's bloody Robards I can do without—the pillock—and I don’t like leaving you here alone.

“Go. I’ll be fine.”

Draco returned to the dressing table and picked up his wand. One flick started his hair plaiting itself. He sat and watched Harry pull on his robes, while his plait grew ever longer.

“I won’t be gone long—not if I have anything to say about it.” Harry reached for the polished, black shoes at the bottom of the wardrobe. “Kreacher left a full English in the kitchen, and he brought a pile of new books from Grimmauld Place.”

“Actually,” Draco ventured, “I thought I might go for a walk.”

He’d said the words to reassure Harry that he could take care of himself, but the instant they came out of his mouth, he decided he liked the sound of them. He should go for a walk. Get out of this ruddy cottage. Get some fresh air. Act like a free man.

Harry halted in the middle of tying a shoe to look up at him in surprise. Something about his stare discomfited Draco. He felt a flush rise in his cheeks.

“What? What did I say?”

“Nothing.” Harry finished the job with a touch of magic and straightened up to continue staring at his husband. “The countryside doesn’t look like much in Winter, but there’s a nice little village a couple of miles down the road.”

“Muggle?”

“For the most part. There are one or two families with connections to the wizarding world, and I met a Squib there once.” He grinned shamefacedly. “Had to _Confund_ her after she recognized me, so she wouldn’t run to the _Prophet_ with the news that Harry Potter was living in the neighborhood.”

“Sucks to be famous,” Draco murmured, a smile pulling at his lips.

“It does when you’re trying to hide from your adoring fans.” Harry rubbed the back of his neck, still giving Draco that funny look. “Are you serious about this?”

“Why wouldn’t I be? You keep telling me that I’m safe here.”

“Yes, but… you, Draco Malfoy, alone in a country village full of Muggles… sounds like trouble to me.”

“I grew up around villages just like this one. They’re not mysterious to me.”

“And how much time did you actually spend in them?”

“Not much.” Draco bit his lip to hide his rueful smile. “All right, none, but that’s beside the point. If I’m going to live here, I need to get used to being seen out in public. And a village full of Muggles who’ve never heard of Draco Malfoy seems a good place to start.”

“Fair enough. Just watch out for Squibs who read _The_ _Daily Prophet._ ”

Harry suddenly moved over to the bedside table and pulled open the drawer. He took out a small, folded sheaf of paper that he tossed to Draco.

“What’s this?”

“Muggle money.”

Draco turned the strange, colorful notes in his hands, frowning. “Harry, I can’t…”

“Of course you can. Buy yourself a cup of tea and a scone a the Three Sisters, or whatever you like. Spend it on stripy purple leggings for all I care.”

“I don’t even know how to count it.”

“It’s simple—much easier than Wizard money. One pound is one hundred pence.”

“And this is…” Draco fingered a note. It had a big 10 on it. “…ten pounds, or ten pence?”

“Pounds. Have you really never seen Muggle money before?”

Draco just shook his head numbly.

Of course he hadn’t seen Muggle money! He’d barely touched _Wizard_ money in recent years! Everything he’d earned had passed into Nero’s hands and disappeared, while he lived on the whoremaster’s limited generosity. When, exactly, did Harry imagine he might have learned about bloody _pounds_ and _pence?_

“Well, you’ll get used to it.”

“Harry, I…” He broke off, staring down at the bundle of notes, then looked up at his husband. “Are you really just going to hand me your money?”

“Why not? I handed you my credit card so you could buy clothes, and that’s much more dangerous than a pile of pound notes.”

“But Granger was there…”

“And you think that’s the only reason I trusted you with my money?” Harry grinned at him and rolled his eyes. “Git. You’re my husband. It’s your money as much as mine. And honestly, I don’t care if you buy the entire bleeding village! I have enough to cover it! Just don’t spend more than you have in your pocket until I teach you how to use the cash machine, yeah?”

“The what?”

“Later. For now, have a nice walk and a cup of tea, and I’ll teach you how to bankrupt me when I get home.”

*** *** ***

The newspaper slid across the desk, nearly ending up in Harry’s lap. He slapped a hand down on it to halt its progress but did not deign to look at it.

“Well?” Robards growled. “Care to explain?”

“Explain what?” Harry retorted, making little effort to hide his annoyance.

Had the pillock really dragged him all the way to the Ministry to show him a bleeding headline? He was the Head Auror, for Fuck’s sake! He ought to have better things to do with his time than work himself into a froth over the sodding _Prophet!_

“How you ended up as headline news, when you were supposed to be on leave to handle _personal matters_.”

“I’m always headline news,” Harry snapped, as he unfolded the paper and glanced over the front page.

 **POTTER’S SECRET AGENDA** it blared at him. The attached picture was of Phineas Boggs, and his blood pressure rose alarmingly at the sight of it. Just looking at the man made him want to hex something. He barely got through one paragraph before flinging the paper back at Robards.

“Rubbish! Like everything else they print in that…”

“So you _didn’t_ spend your Christmas getting cozy with Malfoy?” Robards cut in.

Harry went still. Anger cooled to caution. His eyes narrowed as they fixed on the other man. After a beat, he said flatly, “I wasn’t aware that my holiday plans were any business of the Head Auror.”

“Is that an admission?”

“It’s a statement.”

“Well, here’s another one for you.” Robards leaned forward and stabbed a finger down at the headline to emphasize his words. “I won’t tolerate this kind of thing!”

“What, shoddy reporting and gossip-mongering?”

“Corruption! Influence peddling! Abuse of power! I won’t have it, Potter, even from _the Chosen One!_ ”

Harry glared at him, seething, but said nothing.

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten how you behaved in Shacklebolt’s office. And don’t think that you can manipulate me the way you did him. I’m not one of your admirers, Potter, only your _boss._ ”

“As my boss you should know, better than anyone, that I would never abuse my power the way they’re suggesting.”

“I know that you’re… _entangled_ with Draco Malfoy in some way, and I don’t like it.”

Harry stiffened, his entire body rigid with fury, but he kept his magic in check and his voice level as he said, “Draco Malfoy is an innocent man, cleared of all charges by the Wizengamot, and what I do with him is _none of your fucking business._ ”

Robards swallowed—was that nervousness in his face, Harry wondered?—and retorted, “It is when it ends up on the front page of the _Prophet_ and taints my investigation.”

“Draco has nothing to do with the Boggs investigation.”

“No?” Robards’ mouth twitched into a faint sneer. “Can you vouch for his whereabouts last night?”

That caught Harry completely off guard. He blinked. Raised his brows. Felt his mouth drop open.

Robards’ smile widened and soured still more. “Phineas Boggs was attacked in his own home sometime after eleven o’clock last night. _Obliviated._ Brain-blasted into a drooling imbecile. And the sole Malfoy heir, returned from the dead, struggling to survive in a world that doesn’t want him without the Family gold to cushion his fall, intimately familiar with Malfoy Manor and all its security spells, is our prime suspect.”

“That’s… that’s bollocks,” Harry finally managed to splutter.

“Is it?” Harry could detect a note of triumph in Robards’ voice. “You can vouch for him, then?”

Harry hesitated a beat, then answered, “Yes.”

“Where was he?”

“In my home.”

“Your home is empty. I sent Aurors there the moment we received the report and they found the house dark.”

“I expect we were asleep.”

“Don’t play games with me, Potter. You aren’t living in Grimmauld Place and you can’t prove that Malfoy was with you last night when Boggs was attacked.”

“He was with me.Where we slept is irrelevant. Draco hasn’t been anywhere near Boggs since the fat fuck threw him out of his own house more than two years ago. And if the only evidence you have against him is a list of reasons why you’d _like_ him to be guilty, I don’t have to prove anything.”

“You don’t know what evidence we have.”

“I know you’ve got nothing on Draco because he wasn’t there. So why don’t _you_ quit playing games and tell me what you want?”

“I want to know what’s going on with you and Malfoy.”

“Again, not your business.”

“You’re up to something, Potter! You and Malfoy may not have been involved in the attack on Boggs, but that doesn’t make either one of you innocent in all this. You pushed the Headhunters to investigate Boggs. You snatched Malfoy from that club—don’t deny it because I know better—then you spirited him away, hid him from everyone…”

“Not from everyone, obviously, since I was seen _cozying up to him_ at Christmas. Which we spent at The Burrow, by the way, with the entire Weasley family. Very sinister, I’m sure.”

“And where you were overheard promising to put Phineas Boggs in Azkaban.”

“Because he’s guilty as sin!” Harry snapped, his patience now hanging by a very frayed thread. “Which you probably already know, since you’ve been overseeing the investigation!”

“Well, it doesn’t matter now, does it? A man can’t be tried unless he’s competent to defend himself, and Boggs isn’t competent to wipe his own arse.”

“Is that what’s got you so angry? That you spent all this time building a case against him and now it’s useless?”

“What’s got me so angry is my junior Aurors going rogue, demanding investigations and then fouling them with their public antics, launching their _own_ investigations without authorization, searching private property without a warrant, aiding and abetting fugitives…”

“Wait, go back. What was the middle thing?”

Robards scowled at him, grinding his teeth in barely-contained rage. “You know precisely what I’m talking about.” At Harry’s lifted brow, he growled, “Turning up at The Horntail in disguise to search Malfoy’s room? Intimidating the proprietor to keep him quiet? Ring any bells?”

Harry kept his expression blank with confusion. After a moment’s thought, he shrugged and shook his head.

Robards ground his teeth still more loudly. “Thought you’d gotten to that brothel-keeper, didn’t you? Frightened him into forgetting that Ministry officials performed an illegal search of his establishment and made not-so-subtle threats against him? Well, you didn’t. I’ve filed his complaint under “Can’t Be Bothered” for now, but don’t think I won’t pursue it, if you push me, Potter. I’m sick of you treating this Force like your own, private army. The war is over, and we don’t need your brand of heroics anymore.”

“So you’re sacking me? Is that what this is all about?”

“No, I’m reining you in. I expect you back in the office tomorrow, ready to do your job, and I expect you to behave like the perfect Auror. Everything by the book. No mysterious trips down Knockturn Alley to visit Malfoy’s old haunts. No photographs of you and your boyfriend on the front page of the _Prophet_. No dropping by Shacklebolt’s office without my knowledge. And I expect you to give the new Boggs investigation your full attention, without prejudice, as if he were a model citizen who spent his time feeding stray dogs and adopting orphans.”

Harry blinked at him in surprise. “You’re giving me the Boggs case.”

A dull flush crept into Robards’ cheeks, telling Harry just how frustrated he was by this situation. “I’m giving it to Weasley. You’re backing him up.”

There it was. Robards needed him on this investigation, couldn’t afford to sack him and couldn’t keep him off the case, even if Draco really was his prime suspect.

“You clearly know more about Boggs than the rest of us,” Robards added bitterly, “so your insights will be helpful. But let Weasley handle the fieldwork. After this,” he flicked at the newspaper with his fingertips, “you can’t be seen poking into Boggs’ affairs.”

Harry just nodded, carefully smothering his smile.

“Find the bastard who melted Boggs’ brain and Malfoy will be off the hook. But if the evidence leads to Malfoy and you try to shield him, you’ll both end up in Azkaban. Do I make myself clear?”

 _Pillock_.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Oh, and here’s another matter to keep you busy and out of trouble.” He held out a file. When Harry took it, he added, “It’s probably nothing—Azkaban does funny things to people—but we have to look into it.”

Curious now, Harry flipped open the file and started to read, but he got no farther than the name on the report—Gregory Goyle—before Robards growled, “Not here. I have work to do.”

“Right.” Harry bounded to his feet and headed for the door.

“Your partner has the Boggs file,” Robards called to his retreating back.

Harry just flipped a hand at him in acknowledgement. It was a disrespectful, not to say rude, way to treat his boss, but Harry didn’t give a fuck. He had a case to work— _two_ cases—and the Auror in him was licking its chops in anticipation. This is what kept him in the job, putting up with the pillock in the Head Auror’s chair. This is what got his blood pumping and his brain ticking. This is what he loved about his life—almost as much as he loved Draco—and even knowing that Draco was waiting for him at the cottage couldn’t keep him away from it forever.

He had to find Ron.

*** *** ***

The village of Icklesford was no more than a handful of paved roads, lined with Medieval structures of pale Cotswold stone, a Gothic church perched on a hill at its western edge and a cobbled square at its center. Half a dozen shops, a public house, an inn, and a post office—with no owls in evidence—lined the square. A few muddy lanes trailed out into the countryside with plumes of smoke visible along them, rising above the bare trees, marking cottages and farms.

Draco liked it from the moment he set foot in it.

Even shrouded in snow and crusted with ice from last night’s freeze, it felt comfortable. Almost familiar. Like a shoe that fit perfectly the first time he slipped it onto his foot. Huddled in Harry’s oversized parka, with his long plait tucked into its back and a knit cap hiding his bright hair, he walked the streets in anonymity. He passed a few people on the icy pavements, and they did not even give him a second glance.

It was liberating. In this place, in this guise, he was not Draco Malfoy or even Draco Potter. He was just a passing figure, muffled against the cold. He could be man or woman. Young or old. Muggle or Magical. Anyone. And for the first time in longer than he could remember, he was not afraid.

He completed a full circuit of the village in just a few minutes, finishing at the looming stone bulk of the inn. A wooden sign swinging from it showed three figures bent over something that strongly resembled a cauldron under the name The Three Sisters.

 _The Weird Sisters, more likely_ , he thought. _Someone likes their Shakespeare. Or has a witch in the family._

He pushed open the door of the tea shop that clung to the front of the inn. A blast of welcome heat and the delectable smell of baking struck him in the face.

“Close the door, there’s a good lad!” a hearty voice called from somewhere inside.

Draco blinked, his eyes watering in the sudden warmth, stepped across the threshold, and let the door swing shut behind him. He had just enough time to absorb the fact that he stood in a small room, three of its walls full of windows and the fourth dominated by a huge fireplace made of the the ubiquitous Cotswold stone, before a woman came bustling over to him, wiping her hands on her apron. She was middle-aged, with nondescript hair, a blunt but pleasant face, and twinkling brown eyes. Under the apron, she wore a shapeless jumper and mud-colored slacks that would have made Draco shudder if he weren’t so tense.

No sooner had the closing door smacked him in the backside than he’d remembered that a Muggle tea shop meant menus, money, and strangers confronting him in a confined space. Strangers like this smiling woman, who seemed to expect something from him, but he’d be buggered if he knew what. It tied his stomach in knots and glued his tongue to the roof of his mouth.

The woman cocked her head, fixed those bright eyes on him, and said, “Well, now, what can I do for you?”

Draco swallowed and opened his mouth. No words came out.

The look she gave him was shrewd and kindly. “You’ll be wanting a pot of tea, I’m thinking. Warm you up a bit. Then maybe something to put a bit of meat on your bones, eh?”

He tried on a smile—just a little one to be getting on with—and answered in a quiet, polite tone that had no Malfoy haughtiness in it. “I’d like some tea, thank you.”

“Right this way, then. Table for one?”

Draco nodded and followed as she threaded a path through numerous empty tables. He seemed to be the only customer at the moment, which meant that he got a prime table right beside the massive fire that crackled on the hearth. Unfortunately, it also meant that there was no one to distract his hostess from her intriguing new guest. She hovered beside the table, watching as Draco pulled off his gloves, knit cap and—after a moment’s hesitation—his parka. Her eyes took in his long, gleaming hair with interest but did not lose their smile.

“You’ll be wanting something with your tea, surely,” she urged.

He draped his coat over one chair and sat in the other, gazing up hopefully at the woman.

“What are you baking that smells so good?”

A wide grin creased her face. “That would be my buttermilk scones.”

“Two scones, if you please, and a pot of tea.”

“Darjeeling?”

“Ceylon, if you have it.”

“Right you are, luv.”

The woman bustled away to fill his order, leaving Draco alone.

This little adventure was going remarkably well, he reflected. He was conversing pleasantly with a Muggle, sitting at his ease in a charming—if slightly too warm—shop, preparing to consume what promised to be a plate of exceptional scones. All that remained was to pay for his meal without mishap, and it would be an unqualified success.

He looked around curiously.

He’d never been in a Muggle tea shop before. He ought to have felt uncomfortable, but oddly enough, he didn’t. With its lace-draped tables, warm lights in glass bowls and cheerful fire, it reminded him of his mother’s drawing room at the Manor. Old fashioned without being stodgy. Feminine without being fussy. Even the paintings hung around the walls made him smile. They were renderings of the Cotswolds in Summer—enthusiastic, colorful and utterly inept—that looked remarkably like the paintings he’d done as a child when he briefly fancied himself a Great Artist. Needless to say, he wasn’t.

The woman returned, carrying a tray laden with a full tea service. Balancing it expertly on one hand, she used the other to transfer items to the table with practiced ease. The whole thing might have weighed no more than a roll of parchment for all the effort it cost her.

As she set the steaming china pot in front of Draco, she said in her brisk, friendly way, “There you are, luv. Get that into you. Drive out the chill.”

Draco accepted the cup she handed to him and poured his tea. The woman chattered on while placing milk, sugar, preserves and clotted cream on the table.

“We don’t get many visitors to Icklesford this time of year. A bit of a rush at Christmas, as a rule, but they’ve all cleared off by now. Just passing through, are you? On a tour of the Cotswolds? Bitter weather for it, and not much to see…”

Draco cut her off with a slight shake of his head. “I’ve recently moved to the area.”

“Well, now, a new neighbor! Isn’t that a treat!” She set down a plate of beautiful, golden-brown scones and ran her eye over Draco again. “Welcome to the village. My name is Bainbridge. Marianne Bainbridge, but everyone calls me Mare.”

Draco took her outstretched hand, shook it. “Draco.” He hesitated, then added, “Potter.”

“Potter… Potter…” Draco watched in secret dismay as Mare absently took the seat across from him, clearly too absorbed in the business of dredging her memory for the name Potter to notice what she was doing. “We have another Potter in the neighborhood… nice young man by the name of Harry. Would you be related?”

“Yes.” Draco hesitated. His left hand twitched, but he fought the urge to pull it under the table, to hide his wedding ring. Then he murmured softly, “He’s my husband.”

“Imagine that!” She blinked at him. “Our Harry’s tied the knot! And never a word to me about it!”

“It was very sudden. But we’ve known each other since we were children,” Draco added, feeling vaguely that he owed her some sort of justification for Harry’s eccentric behavior.

“I think it’s lovely, dear.” She reached over to pat his hand. “If I’ve told him once, I’ve told him a dozen times, it’s a shame for such a handsome boy to shut himself away out there in that lonely old cottage. I thought my niece might do for him, but I see he had other ideas.”

Draco just blinked at this, offered her a slight smile, and sipped his tea. It was excellent. And the scones were tempting—if he could ever rid himself of the loquacious Mare long enough to eat them.

“So, will you and Harry be living at his cottage? Not whisking him off to the city, are you?”

Draco shook his head. “I like it here.”

“You just wait until the flowers start to bloom.” She patted his hand and pulled back, rising to her feet. “Then you’ll see Icklesford at its best.”

Draco opened his mouth to respond but was cut off by the tinkle of the bell on the front door.

It swung open. A figure, bundled up against the cold, blew in. The figure paused just inside the door, stamped fresh snow from its boots, and pushed back its fur-lined hood to reveal a head of glossy brown hair and a pair of dark eyes. It was a young woman—that much was now clear—somewhere around Draco’s own age, with distinct curves under her quilted coat.

“Starting to snow again,” she remarked to the room at large, as she tugged off her gloves. “Cold as a witch’s tit, but don’t tell Mum I said that.”

“Honestly, Margot, where are your manners?” Mare scolded.

“Sorry, Auntie,” Margot laughed.

“Come meet our new neighbor.”

Margot stomped her feet one more time for good measure, then wove her way through the tables, shedding outer gear as she went. By the time she reached Draco, she was down to a cable-knit jumper, snow pants, and a red scarf hanging loose around her throat. At closer range, she bore a strong resemblance to Mare, but with all the bright, healthy attractiveness of youth and no floury apron.

“This is my niece, Margot. And this is Draco,” Mare said, nodding at her silent customer, drawing Margot’s curious gaze to him.

“Pleased to make your…”

The instant Margot’s eyes touched his face, she froze. Her smile slipped away. Her face went blank with shock, then flushed with anger.

Draco watched it happen with dread congealing in his stomach.

He knew that look. He’d seen it often enough during the war and had avoided it since only by hiding his face from a public that despised him and wanted him dead. He hadn’t expected to see it here, in this quiet village, but that just proved what a fool he was.

He stiffened in his chair, his hand clenching unconsciously around a wand that wasn’t there, and his eyes darted to the exit.

“I know you. You’re _Draco Malfoy_.” She bit off the name like it tasted bad.

Draco could feel his face going stiff. Haughty. Disdainful. That’s what Margot would see, at any rate. All he really felt was panic, and knowing that he was showing her his most hateful Malfoy mask only intensified that panic.

“Have we met?” he asked softly.

Margot’s eyes narrowed accusingly. “Not bloody likely!”

“Margot!” Mare protested. “What on _Earth_ is the matter with you!”

“But I’ve seen your face in the papers plenty,” Margot went on, oblivious to her Aunt, “and I know what you are.”

“You’re a witch,” Draco said through numb lips.

“A _Squib_ ,” she shot back, bristling defensively, “and I’m not ashamed of it.”

The Squib.

Draco almost groaned aloud.

This was the Squib Harry had _Confunded_ to protect his privacy. And Draco had stumbled straight into her, putting Harry at risk of discovery again, because he couldn’t stay safely in the cottage where he belonged.

He was such a fucking _idiot!_

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, reaching into his pocket for the money Harry had given him. “I don’t want any trouble.”

“That’ll be a first for you, won’t it?” Margot sneered.”

“Margot!” Mare gasped again.

Draco lurched to his feet, staggering slightly when the chair bumped the back of his legs. He couldn’t move properly, couldn’t make his fingers work, couldn’t get the bill off the top of the sheaf in his hand. He fumbled with it for a moment, then held it out to Mare.

“Is that enough?”

“No, no, dear, sit down. Finish your tea,” she chided, her kindly face puckered with distress. “Margot will apologize…”

But Margot was having none of that. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, Malfoy,” she hissed, “but we don’t want any of it. This is a nice village, full of decent people. Do yourself a favor and clear off!”

Draco dropped the tenner on the table, added another for good measure, then shoved the rest into his pocket, balling his fist around it to still the tremor in his fingers. He grabbed his coat and turned to leave, keeping his head down, his eyes on the floor, and his shoulders hunched defensively, braced for a blow. Instead, he felt a hand on his arm, pulling him back. He cut his eyes over to Mare’s face.

She looked confused and upset. Close to tears. The look she gave him was pleading.

“You’re always welcome here, Draco. You and Harry. Come back any time.”

Without answering, Draco pulled gently away from her and headed for the door.

As he opened it, he heard Margot shout, “Don’t think I’m afraid of you, Malfoy! I know people… I’ll have the Ministry after you, just see if I don’t!”

Letting the door swung shut behind him, Draco paused to catch his balance and pull on his coat.

He should do something. Talk to Margot. _Obliviate_ her so she didn’t remember seeing Draco Malfoy in her Auntie’s tea shop. _Something._ But he had no clear idea what that something might be and couldn’t face going back into that shop. So instead of confronting theproblem like an adult, he did the only thing he really excelled at.

He fled.

*** *** ***

Harry found Ron in the tiny office they shared. Unfortunately, Ernie MacMillan was there before him, haranguing Ron in an overly-loud, hectoring voice that carried well down the corridor and warned Harry what he would find long before he got there. They were discussing Harry—that fucking article in _The Daily Prophet_ , to be exact—or rather, Ernie was holding forth about Harry and Ron was trying vainly to shut him up.

“It’s libel, pure and simple!” Ernie boomed. “A blatant attempt to smear Potter’s name!”

“So what else is new?” Ron asked, wearily. “The bloody _Prophet_ is always trying to smear Harry’s name—when it isn’t trying to deify him.”

“It’s not just Potter who suffers for it, Weasley, and you know it. It’s all of us! We followed Potter onto the Force because he was the Chosen One. The man who defeated You Know Who. This is _his_ department, far more than it is Robards’, and if he goes down, we all go with him. That’s what the pureblood extremists are counting on.”

“Merlin’s balls,” Ron sighed, and Harry could picture him rubbing his eyes.

“You mark my words, this is their handiwork! They want Potter destroyed and they don’t care how they do it! First they dangled Malfoy in front of him—played on his hero complex—now they’ve got the Press involved…”

Ron looked up and saw Harry standing in the doorway. The two men exchanged an eye roll.

“Give over, MacMillan,” Ron groaned, “I’ve got work to do and no time for your ruddy conspiracy theories.”

“You need to talk to Potter,” Ernie went on, ignoring his interruption. “You’re the only one he’ll listen to. Get him to give an interview, set the record straight. And while you’re at it, bring Malfoy in for questioning in this Boggs affair. That will show the public that we’re doing our jobs properly, pursuing justice, not going easy on the little sod because he’s Potter’s latest project!”

Ron smacked his hands down on the desk and glared at Ernie. “Oi! That’s my case, you tosser, not yours, and _I’ll_ decide who’s a suspect! Now, bugger off and let me get down to it, yeah?”

Ernie huffed in annoyance and turned on his heel to leave, only to fetch up nose-to-nose with Harry himself. He checked his stride, and a flicker of chagrin showed in his face. In the next breath, he collected himself, plastered on a matey grin, and clapped Harry on the shoulder.

“Ah, Potter! We were just talking about you!”

“I heard.”

“Terrible business with the _Prophet,_ eh? Printing all those lies… linking you with Malfoy… dragging your name through the muck… disgusting! Just know, we’re behind you. All of us Young Wands, and a good number of the Old Guard, too. Whatever you need, we’re there!”

Harry quirked a half smile that did not touch his eyes. “Good to know. Now, if you’ll excuse us? My partner and I have a case to solve.”

“Back on the job, yeah? Excellent. Glad to hear it. Place hasn’t been the same without you…”

Ernie finally made it out the door, still smothering Harry in good cheer, and Harry shut it firmly in his face. Then, with a sigh, he loped over to the desk and dropped into the empty chair across from Ron.

“Bloody fucking hell.”

“Couldn’t have put it better myself, mate. Ruddy MacMillan needs a Ministry-issued muzzle.”

Harry tossed the file he carried onto the desk and leaned his head back to stare at the ceiling. “He and Robards are reading from the same cue cards—all about how Draco is the prime suspect in this attack on Boggs.”

“Pffft!” Ron snorted dismissively. “Plonkers, the pair of them. Not that I can say that to The Pillock himself. Have to play the dutiful Auror, follow procedure, check all the boxes… you know, waste my fucking time.”

Harry pulled his head up straight and gave his partner a rueful smile. “Well, consider all your boxes checked where Draco is concerned. He was with me last night. _All_ night. And no, he didn’t leave, even to have a slash, after we shut the bedroom door in Kreacher’s face at half-ten.”

“Do I have to ask how you know he didn’t leave?”

“I sincerely doubt it.” Pushing himself upright in his chair, Harry met Ron’s lopsided grin and smiled in return. “Technically, I think I’m still on my honeymoon.”

“No details, please! I’ve already got an inferiority complex!”

Harry laughed, then nodded at the file that lay open in front of Ron. “So, what do we have on Boggs?”

“You’re really back, then? And Robards wants you on this case, even with all the shite about you and Malfoy in the papers?”

“He’s none too happy about it, but yeah.”

“I thought he was going to sack you, the way he was going on this morning.”

“I’m sure he’d like to, but he knows as well as MacMillan does what that would do to his department.” A smirk twisted his lips, made up of equal parts embarrassment and disgust. “He needs the Chosen One, whether or not he likes it, and it turns out that I’m not above trading on my celebrity to get what I want.”

“Which is?”

“A chance to find out what happened to Boggs and protect my husband at the same time.”

Ron’s smile turned wry. “Always the ruddy Savior.”

“Only for the people I love.”

“You keep telling yourself that, mate. Right.” Ron frowned down at the file, his fingers now tapping restlessly on the single sheet of parchment it contained. “Phineas Boggs. All we’ve got is the initial report sent over from St. Mungo’s this morning.”

“He was _Obliviated?_ ”

“Totally mind-wiped, apparently. A gardener found him wandering the grounds early this morning, wrapped in a bedsheet, pecked bloody by peacocks.”

“Peacocks? Seriously?”

“Yeah, those big white ones that Lucius kept. Seems they don’t like their new master, or maybe they like him a little too much. Anyway, he’s in hospital, being treated for exposure, bird bites, and spell damage. And _that_ ,” he flipped the file closed, “is all we know.”

“Well, fuck,” Harry said blankly.

“I won’t waste any tears on bloody Boggs, but it’s a sorry way to go. One minute, you’re the Broom Varnish Baron, swanning about as the Lord of the Manor, soaking up all that second-hand pureblood snobbery from the Malfoys, and the next, you’re playing patty-cake with Gilderoy Lockhart on the Janus Thickey Ward.”

“It’s better than he deserves.”

Ron cocked his head, eyeing him expectantly. When Harry just raised his brows, he sighed and asked, “Are you ever going to tell me why you hate that blighter so much?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“You can trust me, you know. I want to protect Ferret as much as you do.”

“Then you’ll help me find who did this before anyone else gets hurt, and before Draco gets blamed for it.”

Ron stared at him for another beat, then nodded once and sat back. “Any ideas?”

“Only the obvious one. Whoever _Obliviated_ Boggs didn’t want us questioning him about his connection to Fucking Lucius and the Death Eaters.”

“So it comes back to our earlier investigation.”

“Our first move should be to requisition the file and pick it apart. Figure out what we were so close to uncovering that it was worth melting a man’s brain to keep it hidden.”

“No, that should be our second move. Or maybe our third. First, I’m heading over to St. Mungo’s to interview the healers and, if possible, Boggs himself. Care to join me?”

“Robards wants me to leave the fieldwork to you.”

“Fuck that. You’re my partner and this is our case. I need you, mate. Unless you have to get back to Ferret,” he temporized.

“He’ll be fine on his own for a few hours. I’d like to see Boggs for myself.”

Harry clapped his hands down on the arms of his chair, ready to push himself to his feet, but an ironic look from Ron halted him.

“You aren’t going to tell me what that is?” he asked, jutting his chin at the file Harry had brought from Robards’ office.

Harry blinked at it, only just remembering its existence, then shrugged. “Busywork. Something to do with Goyle.”

“Goyle?” Ron pulled the file toward him, flipped it open. “As in, the surviving half of Crabbe-and-Goyle?”

“His father, I think. Isn’t the son living in Hungary with his mum?”

Ron hummed an affirmative as he scanned the report. Suddenly, he gave a hoot of laughter. “This is rich! Daddy must be as gormless as little Greggy. Or he’s totally off his nut.”

“Azkaban’ll do that to you.”

Ron laughed again and passed the file over to Harry. “Barking. The poor sod.”

Harry glanced over the report and, like Ron, couldn’t help laughing at what he read. “He seriously claims that _Bellatrix Lestrange_ paid him a visit in prison? He must be barking!”

“Why is Robards even wasting his time on this?”

“He’s not. He’s wasting _my_ time.” Harry closed the file and tossed it contemptuously back onto the desk. “He probably thinks it’s funny—packing the Chosen One off to Azkaban to interview a gibbering lunatic.”

“Pillock,” Ron said amiably. “St. Mungo’s, then?”

*** *** ***

It wasn’t until much later that Harry thought about Gregory Goyle again.

He returned home after a pointless interview with Boggs to find Draco huddled at one end of the settee, his knees drawn up to his chest and his chin propped on them. As Harry snapped into existence on the hearthrug, Draco turned a blank stare on him, no sign of welcome disturbing the rigid mask of his face. Harry instantly recognized the look as one of panic and forgot all about his own troubles.

Dropping his cloak unceremoniously on the floor, he crossed to the settee in two strides and fell to his knees beside it. He laid a hand on Draco’s arm and felt it tense. Draco wasn’t shaking or crying—in fact, he was preternaturally calm—but he might just as well have been.

“What happened?” Harry asked gently.

“I fucked up. I met your Squib in the village and she recognized me.”

“Is that all?” It wasn’t a taunt or a dismissal, just a simple request for information.

“She threatened to set the Ministry on me.”

“She can’t. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“I _should_ have done something. I should have _Obliviated_ her or…”

“You absolutely should _not_ have done that.”

“But Harry, I’ve ruined everything! I just stood there and let her insult me, then I _left!_ I’m such a fucking idiot!”

“You’re not. Come here.” With a gentle tug, he pulled Draco into his arms and gathered him up against his chest. “You’re entitled to go for a walk in the village or drink tea at the Three Sisters. If Margot the Squib doesn’t like it, well, fuck her.”

Draco gave a little sob of laughter into the front of Harry’s robes.

“Did you say anything to her about me?”

“No, but I told her aunt that I’m your husband. Before I knew who she was, obviously.”

“That’s inconvenient, not a disaster. Mare’s an old busybody but she means well.”

“Does she know who you really are?”

“She probably does now.”

Draco lay quietly against him for a moment, then murmured, “I fucked up.”

“Bollocks. Next time you want to visit the village, I’ll go with you. We’ll walk through the square holding hands and snogging. And if Margot opens her fat gob, I’ll fill it with slugs.”

Draco almost laughed at that.

“Let’s have a nice cup of tea.”

“Because tea fixes everything.”

“Obviously!”

Over tea at the kitchen table, Harry broke the news that he was returning to work the next day. Draco took this stoically, only remarking that it was about bloody time. Harry considered telling him about Boggs, but the stiffness around his mouth and the fragile look in his eyes warned his doting husband that he was not in any shape to hear it. The encounter with Margot had frightened him, and not just because it threatened to expose Harry’s whereabouts to his adoring public. She had wounded him somehow.

Firmly banishing Phineas Boggs to the pile of things to be dealt with later, Harry spent the rest of the day at Draco’s side. They teased each other, laughed together, read some Shakespeare, drank copious amounts of tea, and pretended that all the shite outside the walls of their snug cottage did not exist. By the time they retired to the sitting room after dinner, Draco had lost his brittle edge and hunted look, and Harry was congratulating himself on a job well done.

Draco folded himself onto the settee, long legs tucked up beneath him, and tilted his head back to smile at Harry. The firelight gleamed in his eyes and shimmered in his hair. The smile softened the sharp planes of his face. And the beauty of him stopped the breath in Harry’s throat.

“Did you forget the wine?” Draco asked, his voice faintly taunting.

“I did not.”

Harry snapped his fingers and two glasses of deep, purple-red wine appeared in front of him. He plucked them both out of the air and handed one to Draco. Their eyes met over the rims of their raised glasses. They smiled and drank together. Then, in one fluid movement, Harry sent the glasses soaring away as he sank onto the settee and leaned into Draco’s body. Their lips met in a long, heated kiss that tasted of wine and want.

“Did you forget to send Kreacher to bed?” Draco whispered, as he let Harry bear him back onto the cushioned seat.

“I did not.”

Draco smiled, bit at Harry’s lip, then ran his tongue over the tingling spot marked by his teeth. “Did you assume you’re going to get lucky?”

“I did.”

Harry’s hands slid into Draco’s hair, catching his head, guiding their mouths together. Draco met him with parted lips and a panting moan that Harry eagerly swallowed. Then they were kissing fiercely, messily, hungrily, as if they had never tasted anything so good or wanted anything so much.

When Harry finally pulled away, he could feel the hard length of Draco’s cock pressing up into his belly. His own was already wet with anticipation. He held Draco’s head in both hands, brushed his reddened cheek with his thumb, and stared longingly into the Arctic eyes fastened on his. There was nothing cold about them now. They shone like ice in the sunshine.

“Was I wrong?” he asked on a low, lustful growl.

Draco turned his head slightly to nip at Harry’s thumb, then he sucked it into his mouth and wrapped his swollen lips around it.

“You were not.” He sucked gently, sending a jolt of pleasure straight to Harry’s groin and drawing a grunt from him. Then he pushed the thumb free with his tongue and whispered, “You’re about to become the luckiest man alive, Harry.”

“Yes, I am.”

Harry abruptly rocked back to sit on his heels, pulling Draco up with him. He was now crouched between Draco’s bent knees, still cradling his head, with long silver-gilt strands spilling down over his hands like moonlight. He kissed him again, even as he slid off the settee and onto his feet, once again bringing Draco up with him.

He didn’t use magic to strip off Draco’s clothes. He wanted to feel the other man’s skin beneath his hands, feel the way his muscles shifted and moved in obedience to his touch. He wanted to peel soft leggings down over lean, taut thighs and see his beautiful cock spring free. He wanted to stroke his feet as he tugged off socks, leggings and pants together, then trail his fingers up from ankle to knee to thigh to arse, savoring every inch, sending shivers through the skin beneath his hands. He wanted to crush cashmere between their bodies when he pulled Draco into another searing kiss and ground the straining denim at his crotch against the other man’s naked, dripping cock.

By the time Harry had done all this and had his mouth on his husband’s again, Draco was trembling. His lips, his hands, his thighs. Even his lashes trembled, fluttering against his cheeks, and moisture clung to them. Harry gave his bruised-looking lips a final caress, then pulled away.

“Fuck me. Please,” Draco whispered soundlessly, without opening his eyes.

Harry’s answer was to turn him gently around and press him onto his knees on the wide, cushioned seat of the settee. Draco caught at the high back with both hands and let his head fall forward. Harry opened his own flies, shoved down jeans and pants, took his straining cock in his fist. With his other hand, he stroked Draco’s flank and felt it shudder at his touch.

Draco didn’t need much prep—didn’t want it—just a touch of lube. Harry conjured it with a thought and worked his fingers between Draco’s cheeks to tease his hole. Draco groaned and sagged forward, hips pushing back.

“Harry! H- _harry!_ ”

Harry obligingly eased a finger into him and twisted it to slick the opening. Draco cried out, his entire body shaking, and lunged backward to impale himself on that finger.

Harry laughed softly and pulled away, chiding, “That’s not what you need, is it, my love?” Then, in one smooth, powerful stroke, he buried himself in Draco’ arse.

They fucked slowly, hungrily, Draco kneeling upright on the seat cushions and leaning back against Harry’s body, Harry thrusting into him and fisting his cock. They moved together, breathed and moaned and shook together, worked themselves to a fever pitch of need together. And in the last, ecstatic moment, they came together with a groan and a cry and an eruption of agonizing pleasure.

When the sparks dancing along his nerve endings finally died, and the flashing lights that filled his eyes faded, Harry found himself bent over Draco’s shuddering back, still holding his half-hard cock in his fist. Come slicked his fingers, spattered the cushions between Draco’s spread knees, and ran down their thighs. His own cock was softening, but it was still comfortably lodged in his husband’s body, and Harry was delighted to have it so.

He gave a satisfied grunt and pushed himself upright. Draco came with him, then made as if to pull away. Harry caught him around the waist and held him close.

“Don’t,” he muttered. “Stay with me.”

Draco tried to laugh, but it turned into a groan. “We have to clean up this mess.”

“Leave it.” He kissed Draco’s throat and murmured against his sweat-dampened flesh, “Come to bed.”

“Kreacher will know.”

“Kreacher already knows. Come to bed, love. I need more of you.”

“How could I say no to that?”

Twisting in Harry’s arms, Draco looped his own around the taller man’s neck and teased a kiss to his lips. Harry returned the kiss, scooped him up in his arms and carried him to bed.

It wasn’t until hours later, when Harry had shagged his husband into boneless exhaustion and Draco was curled into Harry’s side, his breath slow and warm on Harry’s skin, that Harry finally relaxed enough to let his mind drift back over his day. Back to Robards and his absurd accusations, to the disgusting article in the _Prophet_ , to Boggs snuffling and whimpering with snot all over his face and bloody peck-marks on his plump legs, to Goyle claiming that Bellatrix Lestrange had returned from the dead to torment him.

Gregory Goyle.

Something about that name gave him a niggling feeling in the back of his brain.

Gregory Goyle. Marked Death Eater. Loyal servant of Voldemort. Friend of Lucius Malfoy. Regular visitor to the Manor. Father of Draco’s childhood friend.

So many labels. So many signs that pointed to one ugly conclusion.

And now, Gregory Goyle’s name had popped up in a report on the very same day that Phineas Boggs—another man connected to Draco in all the worst ways—was attacked and brain-blasted. Coincidence? Harry doubted it. But then, he could be wrong about Goyle, which would make any link to Boggs so unlikely as to seem ludicrous.

If he was wrong… But was he?

There was one sure way to find out.

Harry cradled Draco’s head to his shoulder, stroking his hair gently, and listened to his breathing. He was asleep, or nearly so, and utterly relaxed, his body soft and sated and heavy. All the tension, all the fear, had drained out of him, leaving only this trusting creature asleep in Harry’s arms.

One word would wake him. That was all it would take, then Harry could get his answer. Then he would know whether Goyle was part of an elaborate plot that was somehow tied to Draco’s past, or just a nutter who was seeing ghosts.

One word.

He opened his mouth. Drew in a breath. But the word never came out. Instead, Harry pushed the hair back from Draco’s forehead and pressed a kiss to it. The sleeping man smiled and snuggled more closely into his warmth, pale lashes twitching but never lifting. Harry echoed his smile, kissed him again, and settled his head back into his pillow.

Bellatrix Lestrange was dead. Goyle was a nutter. Harry was seeing plots where there were none. And Draco was no part of this.

Holding this last thought firmly in mind, Harry closed his eyes and fell asleep.

**_To be continued…_ **


	3. Familiar Faces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another chapter for you! This is the last one I have in reserve, so they may come a little more slowly from here on out, but it's a nice loooong one. I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Thank you very much for your comments so far! I really appreciate them! Please let me know what you think of the latest chapter. :)

* * *

_The Daily Prophet_

**_WHERE IS DRACO MALFOY?_ **

_…The disgraced Malfoy heir and notorious rent-boy has not been seen since his shocking appearance outside Quality Quidditch Supply in the arms of Harry Potter. The Savior has been spotted at Auror headquarters, once again on the hunt for Dark wizards, but his paramour is nowhere to be seen. Rumor and conjecture are flying, along with calls for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to step up its efforts to find Malfoy before he hatches his next nefarious plot. DMLE officials refuse to comment, but the public outcry only grows louder, demanding to know: Where is Draco Malfoy and what is he up to?_

_The most obvious answer is that Malfoy is paying off old debts. Sources inside the Ministry reveal that Malfoy is most likely responsible for the attack on Phineas Boggs that left him a mental infant, confined to the Closed Ward in St. Mungo’s. As if this weren’t enough to put the Malfoy heir back on the Most Wanted Wizards list, new attacks by the mysterious Memory Thief suggest that Malfoy is hunting down and punishing wizards who may have crossed his family during the war. Just how the more recent attacks are linked to Boggs or to Malfoy is not clear, but it is painfully obvious that Wizarding Britain is not safe with Draco Malfoy on the loose._

_Does the Ministry have a plan for finding Malfoy? Perhaps they should start by asking Harry Potter…_

* * *

“Okay, what have we got?”

“Fuck-all, mate.”

Harry and Ron sat on opposite sides of the desk in their minuscule office, a pathetically small stack of parchment between them. Harry was kicked back in his chair with his ankles crossed and his eyes on the ceiling—his thinking slouch, he called it—while Ron had his elbows propped on the desk and was chewing on the feathered end of a quill. He looked annoyed, but Ron always looked annoyed at this stage in a case, when all they had was preliminary reports and no real progress made.

“The old bugger was apparently mind-reamed and _Obliviated_ in his own home, surrounded by servants and security spells, and no one knew a bloody thing about it until they found him the next morning. The healers say it couldn’t have been an accident. Magical forensics say there’s no sign of where in the house it happened and no wand signature in the spell itself.”

“Wandless magic?” Harry asked the ceiling.

“Kind of has to be, doesn’t it?”

“Unless they found a way to conceal or remove the signature.”

This was an intriguing idea, considering that the healers had immediately pegged the spell as deliberate and tightly focused. Either they had a master practitioner of wandless magic on their hands, or someone who knew tricks the Aurors didn’t. He’d have to check with the Unspeakables. See if they had any ideas.

“So… probably a wandless spell, very powerful but very precise, and they left no traces of their presence in the house.”

“Right. And they didn’t use the floo to get in or out. Our boys checked every fireplace in that pile and found no sign that the floos were used in the last week.”

“That leaves apparition. Or maybe they just walked in the door.”

“Either way, they’d have to get past the wards and layers of security spells. Boggs was kind of obsessed with security…”

“With good reason, apparently.”

“Huh.” Ron shuffled the parchment, stopping to glance over various statements. “According to the servants, Boggs followed his usual routine the night before, right down to the glass of hot milk he drank at half-ten and a reminder to the footman to lock the front door. Which he’d already done, as per bloody usual—his words, not mine.”

“There has to be _some_ break in the pattern,” Harry insisted, “ _some_ piece that doesn’t quite fit. A man doesn’t just wake up one morning to find his brain melted with no warning at all!”

“It looks like that’s exactly what happened to Boggs.”

“I don’t buy it.” Harry straightened up and glared at his partner—not because Ron was at fault but because he was the only person there to glare at. “Who did the interviews?”

“MacMillan.”

“ _MacMillan?_ ” Now the glare was all for Ron. “You sent _that_ plonker?”

Ron shrugged. “Did you want to spend the day at Malfoy Sodding Manor? Because I can tell you that I sure as shite didn’t! Besides, MacMillan’s good at that sort of thing.”

Harry sucked in a breath to protest, then thought better of it. Ron was right. Neither of them wanted to set foot in the Manor after the people they loved had suffered so terribly inside its walls. And Ernie MacMillan was excellent at the tedious legwork that underpinned a case. He enjoyed badgering people.

“Did he find anything at all?”

Ron turned a few more pages, frowning. “Not during the twenty-four hours prior to the attack. The only odd thing was a few days before. They had a visitor to the Manor.”

“How’s that odd?”

“It was Andromeda Tonks.”

Harry’s mouth dropped open. He blinked at Ron foolishly. “What?”

“Andromeda Tonks came to the Manor to see Phineas Boggs.”

“I don’t believe it.”

Ron shrugged, then read from the parchment in his hands, “She gave her name to the gates, and then again to the footman. Boggs seemed to recognize her, greeted her effusively, though by the way he introduced himself, the footman assumed they had never met before. She spent more than an hour with Boggs in the front parlor—tea and cakes were served but not consumed—and was escorted to the door by the master himself. The footman saw her off and shut the doors behind her.

“He described the visitor as a witch in her fifties, tall, dark hair and eyes, handsome, but with a haughty, cold manner.”

He dropped the parchment, looked up at Harry with his brows raised. “Sound like anyone we know?”

Harry just stared at him, still struggling to believe it.

Andromeda Tonks and Phineas Boggs. Why? What was the connection?

Draco was the obvious answer, except that Draco had never met his Aunt, as far as Harry knew, and she would have no way of knowing about his history with Boggs. Or any reason to care, if she did.

“Boggs was fine when she left,” he finally managed to say.

“Right as rain, and for a few days after. So if Andromeda did this to him, she had to come back. Or she set a spell that was triggered later.”

“Except no traces of such a spell were found.”

“No.” Ron set the parchment sheet back in the file and straightened the stack in a habitual, unconscious gesture. “As far as we can tell, it was just a friendly visit. Tea and a chat.”

“Tea that wasn’t touched and a chat with a man she had never met before.”

“A business meeting, maybe? Or making some request on behalf of her sister? Boggs is living in Narcissa’s home, surrounded by things that used to be hers.”

Her sister.

The breath caught in Harry’s throat. His eyes went unfocussed.

_Her sister._

But it wasn’t Narcissa he thought of—not Narcissa, with her pale hair and blue eyes—it was another Black sister. Another woman with dark hair, heavy-lidded eyes, a haughty manner. A woman named…

“Bellatrix!” he blurted out.

“Huh? What about Bellatrix?”

Harry’s eyes came back into focus and fixed on Ron’s face. “Goyle says she visited him in Azkaban!”

“Yeah, but he’s a nutter, mate.”

“What if he’s not?”

“Has to be. Bellatrix is dead.” He got a wary look on his face and ventured, “You’re not suggesting that she’s actually alive and terrorizing her old Death Eater friends for kicks, are you?”

Harry waved that off. “I’m suggesting that Bellatrix and Andromeda look so much alike that it would be easy to mistake one for the other. I did, the first time I met Andromeda. I almost hexed her.”

“So Goyle saw Andromeda and thought it was Bellatrix?”

“Why not?”

“Because Andromeda would have even less reason to visit Goyle in Azkaban than she would Boggs at Malfoy Manor! It’s mental, Harry!”

“Maybe, but if I’m right…”

“You aren’t. You can’t be.”

“If I am, it links Boggs to Goyle and gives us a whole new angle on this case!”

Ron shook his head stubbornly. “This is Teddy’s grandmother we’re talking about, here. Tonks’ _mother_. Since the war, all she’s done is raise Teddy and live quietly, out of the public eye.”

“And visit Narcissa Malfoy in France.”

“Huh? How d’you know that?”

“I saw her at Fucking Lucius’ funeral. The point is, Ron, that Andromeda could be up to all kinds of things that we know nothing about! Maybe her visit to Boggs was perfectly innocent. Maybe she was nowhere near Azkaban and Goyle is totally off his nut. But don’t you think it’s worth looking into?”

Ron chewed that over for a long minute, then shrugged. “We have to ask her about the Manor, in any case.”

“Let’s talk to Goyle, first. Then Andromeda.”

“We’ll need clearance to apparate directly to the island. I’m not riding in one of those ruddy boats!”

Harry grinned. “I’ll take care of it.”

*** *** ***

Draco contemplated his unfinished breakfast in silence. He was feeling restless. Claustrophobic. In need of a change of scenery but with no idea where to go. Another snowfall last night, followed by a freeze, had rendered the countryside inhospitable to say the least, and the village was right out. After his encounter with Margot, he would not risk going near the place, even for a taste of Mare’s scones.

Abraxas came oozing into the kitchen and over to his chair. Draco watched his doppelgänger wrap its sinuous body about his legs, tail weaving, then turn startlingly familiar eyes on him. Sometimes the intensity of cat’s stare made him wonder if the beast was a Legilimens.

Today, his Arctic gaze was full of reproach.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Draco said severely. “It’s not my fault that Harry had to work.”

Abraxas just continued to stare.

Before Draco could come up with something more useful to say, Kreacher snapped into existence at his side, sending Abraxas streaking for the door. Cat and elf did not approve of each other and rarely deigned to occupy the same space. Usually the elf won the day, since he could apparate about the house, and his earsplitting arrivals never failed to frighten the cat into retreat.

Kreacher bowed deeply, then fixed Draco with a look every bit as reproachful as the one Abraxas had given him.

“Draco Malfoy has not eaten his breakfast.”

“It’s Potter, as you know perfectly well, and I’m not hungry.”

“Draco Potter needs to eat to regain his strength. He is too thin and he sleeps too much.”

“Thank you for that unsolicited advice. Now, clear away this mess before it starts to petrify.”

Kreacher clicked his fingers, and the plate in front of Draco sailed into the sink. “What would Draco Potter like for lunch?”

Draco sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Can you wait until I digest my breakfast?”

“Kreacher worries for his master’s most noble spouse and wishes to see him healthy again.”

“Enough with the ‘most noble spouse’ rubbish. You only say it to annoy Harry, and he isn’t here, so spare me.”

The elf bowed again, disapproval plain in every line of his body. “Kreacher does not try to annoy his master. That would be beneath Kreacher’s dignity. He treats Draco Potter with respect because he is deeply grateful to serve the last scion of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, even if his name is now Potter and the Potters are not worthy to wash Kreacher’s tea towel…”

“Shut it, you old humbug,” Draco muttered as he pushed himself out of his chair. “If you want to serve the last scion of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, you’ll help him figure out what to do today. Because he’s _bloody bored._ ”

“Kreacher will serve in any way he can. He does not know what will please his master’s noble spouse, but he will stay in the cottage and amuse him, if that is what he wishes.”

Something about the emphasis Kreacher put on the word _stay_ caught Draco’s attention, and he gave the elf a searching look. “Where else would you go?”

“Kreacher had hoped to visit his former mistress today.”

“His…” Realization dawned, and with it, the beginnings of a plan. “Do you mean my Great Aunt Walburga?”

Kreacher bowed. “Master Harry allows Kreacher to visit her portrait. Kreacher keeps his mistress company and cares for her house, as she would wish. This is his privilege.”

“Will you take me with you?”

The elf straightened up, his eyes widening. “Draco Potter wishes to visit my mistress?”

“Not particularly, but I’d like to see the old house again. My mother used to take me there sometimes, as a child, and I recall that it was very grand but rather rundown.”

“Kreacher does his best,” the elf said glumly, “but his master will not live there as he should, and Kreacher has other duties.”

“That wasn’t a criticism. I just want to see the house. And perhaps…”

The elf regarded him curiously. “Yes?”

“Perhaps find a gift for my mother, to remind her of her family. She’s so alone, now…” At Kreacher’s cautious look, he hurried to add, “I won’t take anything without Harry’s permission!”

“Master Harry will not care,” Kreacher informed him sourly. “Master Harry has put all of the mistress’ belongings into the attic where he does not have to look at them. But he will be angry if Kreacher takes his noble spouse out of the cottage without permission and puts him in danger from nosy wizards who want to pry into Master Harry’s business. Kreacher cannot disobey his master.”

“Has Harry actually ordered you to keep me here?”

“No.”

“And is the house still protected by wards and the _Fidelius_ charm?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll be perfectly safe there. Safer than when I walked into the village, surely, and Harry didn’t complain about that.”

Kreacher frowned heavily, his entire face seeming to droop even more than usual, but Draco detected a hint of hope in his gaze. All the old elf needed was a little push…

Cocking his head to one side, he smiled sweetly and said, “Please?”

Kreacher caved.

They apparated directly into the front hall of the house at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. The _crack_ of their arrival echoed ominously through the old barrack, and Draco had not yet caught his balance when he heard a voice screaming obscenities.

“ _Mudbloods! Traitors! Vermin in my house!_ ”

Kreacher dropped Draco’s hand and scurried down the dark, musty hallway toward a portrait that hung halfway along it. “Hush, Mistress, it is Kreacher! It is only Kreacher! There are no traitors here!”

A few gas lamps flickered to life as the elf passed, driving back the weakest of the shadows and allowing Draco to see past the end of his nose. He looked around, pointedly not staring at Kreacher while the elf groveled and bowed before the still-shrieking portrait, taking in his surroundings.

He had not seen the house since he was very young and his memories of it were vague, but it felt familiar. Maybe it was the remnants of Dark Magic in the walls, or the sense of worn out grandeur that clung to all the old Pureblood families in Britain that he recognized. Or maybe he really did remember that silver-grey wallpaper with snakes crawling up it, the chandelier full of melted candle stumps, and the troll-leg umbrella stand. He certainly remembered the line of house-elf heads mounted on plaques along the staircase. Those heads had populated his nightmares for months after his first visit to the house.

The pervasive air of gloom and decay was probably of more recent vintage. Proud as his Great Aunt Walburga had been, she would not have allowed her home to fall to pieces this way. But Kreacher was clearly past it when it came to heavy work, and Harry had no interest in maintaining the house.

It was too bad, in a way. The house itself was sound—or would be, if a powerful wizard like Harry bothered to chase away the lingering spells that tainted the air—and some of the finishings were quite lovely. The bannister rail made of ebony, for example, and the brass wall sconces that held the lamps. A dust rag, a bit of polish, and they would glow.

He moved to the bottom of the grand staircase, resting his hand on the newel post. A shiver of something strange—awareness? recognition?—went through the wood and into the walls around him. He snatched his hand back.

“The house knows its Family,” Kreacher said from close beside him. Draco looked down at him in surprise. “It knows that an heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black has come.”

Draco wanted to say _Bollocks! It’s just a house!_ but he knew better. Instead, he gave Kreacher a small smile and asked, “May I look around?”

Kreacher bowed. “It is Master Draco’s house. He may do as he pleases. But Kreacher would be honored to show him the house of his former mistress.”

Kreacher’s idea of a tour did not exactly suit Draco. It did not include the kitchens, servants’ quarters or attics, and it spent entirely too much time on the honored history of every ugly nicknack that Walburga had collected in her lifetime, including those ghastly elf heads. But Draco took the opportunity to look through the glass-fronted cabinets in the drawing room and the bookshelves in the third floor library. He lingered in the Master bedroom, fingering Slytherin-green drapes now turning to powder with age and admiring a bed that was even more ornate and regal than Harry’s magnificent Tudor antique.

He didn’t find himself hankering after the lost grandeur of the place, even when some detail forcibly reminded him of Malfoy Manor before it fell into Voldemort’s hands, but he did take a melancholy pleasure in seeing it. And Kreacher was washing his hands with delight at every sign that the old house recognized the Black within its walls. Lamps lit eagerly. Doors opened without sticking. Even windows that had remained stubbornly shut for years yielded to Draco’s hands and swung wide to let in the chill, clean, Winter air.

When they reached the top of the house, Draco insisted that they proceed to the attics.

“There is nothing in the attics for Master Draco.” Somehow, Draco had dropped effortlessly into the habit of hearing himself referred to this way, though he suspected that Harry wouldn’t like it. “Only dirt and cobwebs.”

“And all those items that Harry stashed away,” Draco reminded him.

He frowned lugubriously. “Master Draco will not like it in the attics.”

“Never the less, that’s where I want to go.”

The attics were as dark, filthy and spider-infested as Kreacher had claimed, but they were also stuffed with a fascinating array of Black memorabilia. Everything from robes to furniture to paintings to christening gowns, from every age of wizard-kind, going so far back that Draco could not begin to guess their real age, came out of the endless array of trunks and boxes. It would have taken years to sort it all, and part of Draco thrilled at the notion of doing just that. But what he’d really come for was at the front of the pile—boxes placed there by Harry when he cleaned out the house, containing items new enough that his mother might remember them—so after admiring only a tiny sample of the treasures hidden in this trove, Draco levitated a stack of these boxes and headed back down the stairs with them.

He settled himself in the drawing room on the first floor. Kreacher opened the drapes over the tall, arched windows to let in the sunlight, while Draco lit a fire on the massive hearth. This room was one of the cleanest in the house, being worthy of Kreacher’s best efforts in his own estimation, so Draco did not hesitate to sit down on the carpet and dive into the first box that came to hand.

Two hours later, he looked up from a carved chest full of ugly jewelry to find Kreacher standing in front of him with a tray in his hands.

“Master Draco must eat.”

Draco blinked at the plate of finger sandwiches and the pitcher of pumpkin juice on the tray. “You keep food in this house?”

“Kreacher went back to the cottage for it. Master Draco must eat, or he will make himself ill again, and Master Harry will be angry.”

Draco regarded him and his tray for a moment, then sighed and pushed himself to his feet. “Let me wash up.”

Picking his way through the jumbled mess on the floor, he crossed the landing to the black marble bathroom with its snake-shaped taps. He washed the dust and grime from his hands, wiped a few smears from his face, and used his wand to set his hair in order. Then he returned to the drawing room and settled onto the Chippendale sofa.

The sandwiches were pâté, his favorite, and he set to with a will. He was working his way through the neat pile, barely tasting them he ate so fast, when he heard a tapping at the window. He turned to see a large, brown owl perched on the wide sill. It caught his eye and rapped its beak smartly against the glass again.

Kreacher was at the window, opening it, before Draco shook off his surprise to move. The owl swooped into the room and alighted in the middle of Draco’s lunch tray. Then it dropped a small envelope onto his plate and snapped its beak impatiently at him.

“Where did you come from?” Draco asked, as he picked up the envelope.

The owl answered by taking a swipe at Kreacher with one wicked claw, when the elf ventured too close.

Draco stared at the letter in utter confusion. It was addressed to him—to Draco Malfoy Potter, to be exact—in a hand he did not recognize. Certainly not his mother’s, just as the ill-tempered owl was not hers, but who else would write to him? And how had any owl found him here?

Finally, with an inward shrug, he broke the red wax seal and pulled out a folded slip of parchment. The note read:

_Draco,_

_I owe you an apology for my behavior on Christmas Eve. It was inexcusable. I would like to say as much in person, if you will join me for tea on Thursday afternoon. Harry is welcome too, of course, but this is really between us, so please come with or without him._

_Shall we say three o’clock at the Burrow?_

_Yours,  
_ _Molly Weasley_

A postscript was scrawled across the lower corner of the page in another hand:

_This is not an ambush, I promise. She’s very sorry and wants to make amends. Please say yes! —Ginny_

Draco stared at the note. And stared. And stared. In front of him, the owl ruffled up impatiently and clicked its beak, but still he just stared.

How was he supposed to respond to this? Did Molly Weasley honestly expect him to sit down to tea with her? What could she possibly have to say to him that wouldn’t fit in a very short letter—or an even shorter curse?

And then there was Ginny, begging him to come. His first impulse was to trust her. He had immediately and instinctively liked her on meeting her properly at the Burrow. But Draco was long past trusting anything or anyone—his own instincts included. People lied to him. Tricked him. Betrayed him. Above all, hurt him. Over and over and over again. Harry was the only exception to that rule, and Harry wasn’t here to ask for advice.

After a moment’s thought, Draco got up and went to the fireplace. Taking a pinch of grey powder from the pot on the mantel, he tossed it into the flames and called, “The Burrow!”

When he stuck his head into the green flames, he saw the shabby, cluttered, homey sitting room where he and Harry had drunk endless toasts to their marriage on Christmas Eve. It was empty now and looking more threadbare than ever in the grey light.

“Hello? Mrs. Weasley?” he called.

For a moment, no one answered. Then running feet pattered on the wooden floor and Ginny Weasley moved into view. She paused in the doorway to regard him, head tilted like a bird’s, eyes gleaming with laughter. Then she crossed to the hearth and dropped to a crouch.

“You must not be at the cottage, or you wouldn’t be able to floo-call. Have you escaped?”

“I’m at Grimmauld Place.”

“Poor you.”

“I got your mother’s invitation.”

“So I gathered. Are you calling to accept?”

He hesitated.

Why exactly _had_ he called? He’d done it on a moment’s impulse—a moment’s insanity, maybe—and now he was fairly caught.

“Maybe,” he finally ventured.

“Well, aren’t we decisive!”

He rolled his eyes, then sighed wearily. “Why did she ask me? Really?”

“Because she wants to make up for her beastly behavior at Christmas and because she wants to be on speaking terms with Harry’s husband.”

“And that’s it? No hidden agenda?”

Ginny quirked a wry smile at him. “Paranoid much, Malfoy?”

“Please stop calling me that. And I think I have good reason to be worried.”

“Not about my mum. She doesn’t have a mean bone in her body.”

“She despises me,” Draco said quietly.

Ginny thought about that for a moment, then conceded, “She does now, but she wants to get past it, and I think you owe her the chance.”

It was Draco’s turn to think, and he took his time about it. Ginny waited patiently, not pushing, and finally Draco nodded. She broke out in a beaming smile.

“D’you want me to fetch her?”

“No. I’ll write a proper note.”

“Thank you for doing this, Malf— er, _Potter_.”

“Can’t you call me Draco?”

“Maybe. If you play nice with Mum.”

“I’m not the one who didn’t play nice last time.”

“I know, and I’m sorry. So is Mum, which you will realize if you come to tea.”

Draco nodded and offered her a small smile.

“See you later, Draco. Give my best to Harry.”

“I will.”

Draco sent off his acceptance of Molly’s invitation with the Weasley owl, then he turned his attention back to his treasure hunt. The room was piled with boxes—both full and empty—and with an assortment of loose items. Draco knew he ought to get back to work, to finish his task and get the unwanted things packed away again, but he was suddenly tired. He didn’t want to wallow in Black Family history any more today.

His eyes wandered from the mess on the floor to the piano standing in the back corner of the room, shrouded under a fringed, satin cloth. It was not the full grand that he had played so often at the Manor, but an upright made of dark, rich Cherry, the panels carved with leaves and flowers. When he opened the cover to expose the keyboard, a dead moth fell out. But when he touched one of those ivory keys, worn smooth with age and use, it produced a deep, mellow note.

Draco promptly threw aside the cloth and pulled out the stool. His fingers settled naturally on the keys. He stared at them for a moment, afraid to move them and find that he had lost the music in him along with all the other remnants of his old life. Then he played a hesitant chord.

It was beautiful. Thanks to the magic in the house—and maybe to sour, old Kreacher—the instrument was perfectly in tune. The clear, lovely notes brought tears to Draco’s eyes, so he shut them.

He played another chord, and another, searching for a memory that would guide his fingers, but the only tune he could remember in that moment was a Christmas carol. A Muggle carol that his mother had loved. The song he’d played the last time he touched a piano, on the night he’d been enslaved to Voldemort.

His fingers faltered and his tears quickened. He broke off to wipe his eyes, then he pushed up his sleeves, placed his fingers on the keys, and set his teeth with determination.

The carol had belonged to his mother before Voldemort’s evil touched it. She loved it and Draco loved her. Voldemort was gone, the song remained, and now it was his mother’s again. He would _make it_ hers.

He began to play.

*** *** ***

Harry stepped up to the bars of the cell and studied the man crouched at its back. He couldn’t remember ever seeing the elder Goyle’s face. The only other time he’d been this close to him—in the Little Hangleton graveyard—the man had worn a mask, and Harry had been too taken up with Voldemort’s rebirth to pay attention to much else. He was left mainly with an impression of great size and lumbering stupidity.

The man in the cell might be the one Harry had seen in that graveyard so long ago. His shoulders were broad enough, his hands big enough. He was skeletally thin, his prison robes hanging off of him in loose folds, but if Harry pictured muscles thickening those long arms and filling out the tattered fabric, he could believe that it was Goyle. His hair was long and tangled, his beard creeping up his cheeks to swallow his face, very little of him visible beneath the matted mess. Then he turned his head and stared at his visitors with dull, piggy eyes.

It was Goyle, all right. Harry recognized that look. He’d seen it often enough on his son’s face.

The realization that two red-robed figures were standing outside his cell slowly, visibly sank into Goyle’s brain. He came to his feet in a rush, lungeing for the bars, reaching for Harry, fingers scrabbling at the front of his robes just as Harry leapt back.

“You came!” he cried hoarsely. “Thank Merlin you came!”

Ron jerked his wand up and pointed it at the prisoner.

“Back off, Goyle!” he growled, but Goyle gave no sign that he heard.

He tried again to grab hold of Harry’s robes, sobbing, “You gotta help me! Please! Get me outta here b’fore she comes back!”

“You’re not going anywhere.” Harry sidestepped his reaching hand, caught his wrist, and pushed it down. He tried to be gentle, but even with Goyle wasted to skin and bones, it took all his strength to overpower him. “But if you calm down and talk to us, maybe we can help.”

“You can’t just leave me here! She’s gonna _hurt_ me!”

“Who, Bellatrix? Is that who you’re afraid of?”

Goyle’s piggy, little eyes came up to focus on Harry’s face, instead of his red robes, for the first time. They widened in recognition, flooded with panic, blurred with sudden tears. “Potter!” He staggered back from the bars, mouth gaping open to show rotting teeth. “Harry Potter!”

“Yes, I’m…”

“No! No, no, please, not you!” Under Harry’s startled eyes, Goyle shrank back into the far corner of his cell, shaking his head and repeating, almost frantically, “Not you, not Potter, please, not you…”

“I’m not here to hurt you, Goyle. I just want to hear about your visitor.”

“No.” He shook his head still more wildly. “You won’t help me. You hate me. You _hate me!_ ”

“That doesn’t matter, now. I’m an Auror, and it’s my job to protect people, even Death Eaters.” When Goyle didn’t answer, just huddled away from him, shaking, Harry said, “I can’t help you if I don’t know what you’re afraid of.”

“You.” The piggy eyes found him again, fixed on him with something like pleading in them. “Her.”

“Bellatrix?” Goyle nodded dumbly, tears leaking from his eyes again. “Come here, Mr. Goyle. No one’s going to hurt you, I promise. Just come here so we can talk.”

Very slowly and reluctantly, Goyle shuffled to the front of the cell once more, up close to the bars. Harry stepped in close, as well, firmly shutting out of his mind all awareness of the stench coming off the prisoner. He studied the other man’s face for a moment, trying to see something other than fear in it. There was nothing.

“Now, tell me what Bellatrix did to you.”

“She…” He broke off to clear his throat, then gave a wracking cough. When he began again, his voice sounded like sandpaper on metal. “She looked in my head. She wanted to know about… about something I did.”

“What did you do?”

Goyle just shook his head again, stubbornly, eyes skating furtively away.

“Okay. So she did Legilimency on you.” At the prisoner’s blank look, he amended, “She looked at your memories.”

“Yeah.”

“Then what?”

“She wanted me to see. To remember.”

“And this frightened you?”

“I didn’t want to, but she made me. It was… It was…” He took a gasping breath and sobbed brokenly, “ _Fuck,_ I’m s-sorry!”

“What are you sorry for, Goyle?”

“I can’t!” Panic flared in Goyle again. His voice scaled up into a howl. “I _can’t!_ She said if told anyone, if I blabbed, she would make me pay!”

“How?”

“She would curse them off and _stuff them down my throat!_ ”

“Curse what off?” Ron asked, bemused.

“ _My bollocks!_ ”

It wasn’t funny, but Ron gave a bark of laughter anyway. Goyle shot him a look of pure terror, and Harry felt the unlikely impulse to comfort the man. He reached out to clasp his hand where it gripped the bar.

“Mr. Goyle.” The wild, tear-glazed eyes turned to him. “You’re absolutely sure that it was Bellatrix Lestrange who threatened you?”

He bared his teeth in a snarl and ground out, “You think I’m barmy!”

“Bellatrix is dead. She was killed at Hogwarts more than three years ago.”

“I know. I saw.”

“Then you know the person who visited you here can’t be her.”

“It was her. I’d know her anywhere. I still dream about her…”

“Could this have been a dream, too?”

Goyle regarded him steadily for a moment, something approaching intelligence in his dull gaze. Then he abruptly stepped back, tugging at the neck of his robe as he did so. The fabric parted as easily as old parchment, tearing away from his collarbone and shoulder to expose his chest. Beneath the graying hair that dusted it, the pasty-white skin was marked by an angry bruise and a long, red welt.

Harry stared at it in disbelief, then glanced over at Ron. He could tell that he and his partner were thinking the same thing—dreams couldn’t cast hexes. Neither could hallucinations.

“Bellatrix did that?” Harry asked.

Goyle nodded. “After she looked in my head. Made me remember.”

Harry reached through the bars to touch the wound, but Goyle flinched away. “I won’t hurt you, I promise.”

After a tense moment, Goyle nodded, and Harry reached for him once more. He traced the ugly welt with one fingertip, letting just a hint of his power trickle into it, then he splayed his palm flat on the other man’s chest. If Goyle felt the magic on his skin, he gave no sign. After a moment, Harry pulled away.

“A modified Stinging hex,” he said quietly to Ron.

“She said I deserved it, after what I did, and I’d get worse if I blabbed.”

“What did you do?” Ron asked, trying one more time to pry this piece of information out of him.

Goyle just shook his head and shuffled back into the far corner of his cell.

“All right, Mr. Goyle. Thank you for talking to us,” Harry said politely.

The big, shaggy head came up. “You believe me?” he said hopefully.

“We believe that someone hexed you and we’ll try to find out who.”

“It was her! Bellatrix! _It was her!_ ” His voice followed the two Aurors as they turned to leave, echoing down the stone corridor and starting a sinister rustling in the cells they passed. _“Find her, Potter! You have to find her!_ ”

Harry exchanged a look with Ron, but they didn’t speak until they were in the stairwell, headed down to the ground floor, and out of earshot of the prisoners.

“Do you believe that shite?” Ron muttered, rolling his eyes at Harry. In the flickering torchlight, his eyes glowing orange, he momentarily looked as mad as Goyle.

“He didn’t imagine the hex.”

“Anybody could’ve done that.”

“Only someone with a wand.”

Goyle might well be off his nut. Merlin knew, this place bred insanity like fleas in the straw that covered its floors, and stronger men than Goyle had broken inside its walls. Fucking Lucius hadn’t lasted a year. But somehow, Harry doubted that Goyle was crazy. Frightened and wild and holding onto sanity by the bloody stumps of his fingernails, but not quite ready to let go.

“You still think it could be Andromeda?” Ron asked.

“That’s as good a place as any to start. At least it would explain why he’s so sure it was Bellatrix.”

“Yeah, but why would Andromeda be mucking around in Goyle’s head and punishing him for what she saw? Only, the bugger’s done plenty of things to earn him a good hexing, but why would _she_ care?”

“I don’t know. Maybe Goyle is the one who killed her daughter,” Harry offered, as he used his wand to open a massive wooden door at the bottom of the stairs, “and she wants revenge.”

“Goyle? Take down _Tonks?_ I doubt that, mate.”

“Have you got a better explanation?”

“Yeah. The whole thing is bollocks.”

They pushed through yet another door into yet another grim, dank, cold space made entirely of stone and misery. This one was a guardroom that doubled as the Records archive for the prison. A few sullen torches flickered on the walls and flecks of dirty straw littered the floor. It held no chairs, just a high wooden desk and racks full of old, peeling, leather-bound books against one wall. Other doors led off in various directions, one of them toward the entry hall and the huge archway that was the only way in or out of the prison. Harry cast a longing glance at it, then turned his attention to the job at hand.

They couldn’t leave until they got the rest of the story.

A guard stood behind the desk. He noted their entrance with dull, disinterested eyes. “Learn anything?”

“Maybe.” Harry approached the desk. “I need to have a look at the visitor log for the last few days.”

The guard grunted and pulled a book out of the nearest rack. It was huge and apparently ancient, the leather binding peeling at the corners, but the sheets of parchment spelled into it were new. The man hefted it onto the desk and flipped it open to a flabby, pinkish marker that looked remarkably like a dried tongue. The page had a few dozen entries on it.

“This book covers the last two years.” He smirked at Harry. “We don’t get many visitors.”

“Wasting your ti-ime,” Ron hummed in his ear.

“We’ll see.”

Harry gave the guard a questioning look and, at his nod, turned the book around so he could read it. The writing was erratic, each entry done in a different hand, but it was all fresh enough to be easily read. Harry’s eyes scanned the page and stopped at the last entry.

There it was, clear as day. Andromeda Tonks.

Harry heard Ron’s breath catch as he, too, read the name. “She was here.”

“Who?” the guard demanded. “Bellatrix Lestrange? You’re barmy, mate.”

“Her sister, Andromeda Tonks.” Harry pointed to the entry. “It says here that she asked to see Rodolphus Lestrange. That would be Bellatrix’s husband.”

“I know who he is,” the guard muttered. He was scowling now, his eyes on the visitor log and avoiding Harry.

“Did she actually visit him?”

“Wouldn’t know. I wasn’t on the gate that day.”

“Who would know?”

He scratched his head. “Skively was the guard on duty all weekend. He would’ve escorted her up to the cell. But he’s on medical leave—been acting kinda funny lately and the Guv thought he needed a rest.”

“Funny how?” Harry asked, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“Just funny. People get that way, they hang around this bloody rock too long.”

“Then we’ll talk to Lestrange.”

“No, you won’t.” Harry’s brows rose at his emphatic tone, and the guard’s scowl deepened. “You _won’t_ because you _can’t_. He’s dead.”

“ _What?_ ” both Aurors chorused at once.

“You ’eard. Blighter’s dead.”

“You seem awfully sure of that.”

“Course I’m sure. I dug his bleeding grave, didn’t I? And that’s no laughing matter in the middle of Winter, when the ground’s frozen solid and the wind comes off the North Sea like a bloody Killing Curse! Even with a wand, it takes an hour to cut deep enough. Then you have to keep the dirt from freezing again before you pile it back in.”

Harry just stared at him, floored by this news.

Luckily, Ron got his brain back in gear faster than Harry and thought to ask, “How did he die?”

The guard shrugged. “How they all die. Just lay down and quit breathing.”

“Could someone have helped him along?”

“Nah. He was a long time going, that one. Sick for months.”

“And you just buried him out there, without telling anyone?”

He shrugged again. “We notified the DMLE. Who else is there? He was a stinking Death Eater with no living family, except for this Tonks woman. Maybe she came to say goodbye.”

“I doubt that,” Ron muttered.

Harry shuddered and turned away. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

* * *

Back in their office, Harry sat crumpled in his chair, eyes on the desk, going over everything they had learned at the prison. Across from him, Ron was eating stale chips left over from his lunch and drinking cold, tar-black coffee.He licked his fingers and nudged the greasy paper toward Harry.

“Go on, mate. You need something in your stomach.”

“What I need is one piece of evidence that makes sense. Why would Andromeda go to the prison? Why would she want to see Rodolphus, and what could he possibly say to her when he was three parts dead? And what connection does she have to Goyle?”

“None. Goyle is flying without a broomstick. Three Knuts shy of a Sickle. Trust me, Harry, you have to stop listening to that clot.”

“But she was _there,_ Ron.”

That pulled his partner up short. He popped another chip in his mouth, chewed thoughtfully, then declared, as if receiving divine inspiration instead of repeating what Harry had been saying for hours, “Let’s talk to her!”

“Brilliant. Why didn’t I think of that?”

Before Ron could respond to this, the door flew open and Ernie MacMillan stormed into the room. Harry and Ron both turned at his entrance to fix him with matching scowls that he blithely ignored. Striding over to the desk, he slapped a newspaper down on it in front of Harry.

“They’re at it again!” As usual, Ernie found it impossible to speak at less than a bellow, and when he was really worked up, his voice could make the walls shake. He was there now. “The filthy bastards just won’t let up!”

“Argh!” Ron groaned, dragging his hands down his face and rolling his eyes at Harry. “What’s got your knickers in a twist this time, MacMillan?”

“Have you seen today’s _Prophet_?” Ernie demanded. “Have you?!”

“No, and I don’t want to,” Harry said, tossing the paper away without looking at it. “Go do some work, Ernie, and let us get on with ours.”

“You aren’t, though! Still haven’t brought Malfoy in for questioning in the Boggs case, have you? Which only throws more meat to those scavengers in the Press…!”

“For Fuck’s sake!” Ron exploded, coming half out of his chair. “Keep your bloody nose out of my case! And get that shite off my desk!”

“Maybe if you bothered to read it once in a while, you’d know what’s going on in the world! You’d solve your cases faster, that’s for damned sure!”

“I don’t need some hack like Rita Skeeter telling me how to do my job—like she’d know a Dark wizard if he came up and kissed her on her fat arse!”

“Is that what Malfoy’s doing, Weasley?! Kissing your arse?! I knew he was a slag, but I didn’t know you were that desperate!”

“Oi!” Harry shouted, slamming his fist down on the desk to silence them both. “That’s enough!”

Both Ron and Ernie turned fulminating glares on him. After a beat, Ron dropped back into his chair, muttering something foul under his breath. Harry rounded on Ernie and saw, past his shoulder, a handful of red-robed figures lurking just outside the door, listening avidly to their shouted exchange. The one at the front of the pack was Edmund Warwick, Ernie’s partner and one of the few Old Guard Aurors who’d agree to work directly with the Young Wands. Like Robards, Warwick was a decent Auror who had done nothing specific to earn Harry’s distrust, but like Robards, he never failed to set Harry’s teeth on edge.

With a silent surge of magic, Harry slammed the door in his colleagues’ collective faces and added a Muting charm for good measure.

Then he hissed, “If you’ve got something to say to me, Ernie, say it. _Without_ bringing Draco Malfoy into it!”

“See, Potter, that’s what gets you into trouble.” Ernie wasn’t bellowing anymore, but he was all officious pomposity, which was worse. “Everyone knows Malfoy is behind these attacks, even the journos, but you…”

“Did you say _attacks?_ ” Harry demanded, cutting him off without apology.

Ron jerked upright in his chair. “There’s been another one?”

Ernie smirked in his most annoying fashion and nodded toward the paper. “Like I said, read a paper and you might learn something.”

Harry and Ron both reached for the paper in the same moment. Harry got it first, so Ron bounced out of his chair to circle the desk and read over his shoulder.

It wasn’t hard to find the story, plastered as it was across the front page under a huge headline. The article itself was short but laden with snide innuendo and as many reminders of Draco’s perfidy as could possibly be crammed into a few inches of copy. Harry skimmed over the nastiness, looking for the kernel of actual news embedded in it.

Recent attacks. No clear links to Boggs. Draco blamed.

Dropping the paper, he swiveled around in his chair to frown up at Ernie. “Why haven’t we heard about this?”

“Because it’s our case, not yours.”

“But if they’re linked to the Boggs case…”

“There’s no proof of that, yet, only some superficial similarities,” MacMillan declared. “And obviously, Robards thought you had enough on your plate.”

“Who’re the victims?” Ron demanded.

“A couple of You Know Who’s arse-lickers by the name of Nott and Sokolov. Nott’s a Marked Death Eater, but he escaped prison by turning his coat at the last minute. Sokolov never rated a Dark Mark and no one cared enough about him to bother.” He grinned. “Until now.”

Harry stared at him, only half hearing, his mind spinning.

Nott. The name triggered something in him—memory, certainty, panic—and formed a cold lump in the pit of his stomach. Goyle and Nott. It couldn’t be a coincidence.

“What happened to them?” Ron asked, oblivious to Harry’s distracted state.

MacMillan shrugged unconcernedly. “Stripped, bound, beaten, partially _Obliviated_. Sokolov was unconscious when his wife found him. Nott was just confused, wondering how he’d ended up tied to a bedpost, whipped raw, with an, erm, _object_ shoved in his mouth.”

The lump in Harry’s stomach writhed, threatening to bring up his lunch all over the desk. Lurching to his feet, he croaked, “I have to go.”

Ron goggled at him and protested, “What about our interview?”

“And what about this business with the _Prophet?_ ” Ernie chimed in.

“Work up a strategy for the interview,” Harry called over his shoulder, on his way to the door, “and ignore the fucking _Prophet!_ I’ll see you tomorrow!”

He was out the door and halfway to the lifts by the time they stopped spluttering.

* * *

Harry stepped out of the floo in Grimmauld Place and came to a surprised halt on the hearthrug. He always took the floo from the Ministry to Grimmauld Place, then apparated from here to the cottage, and every day the room looked the same. Dark, deserted, velvet drapes shrouding the tall windows, overly-formal furniture standing silent guard over an empty house.But today it was different.

The drapes were open, the room full of pale Winter light. The silk brocade cloth that usually covered the piano lay on the floor, and the piano itself was open. The hearthrug was clear, but all around it, the floor was piled with dusty boxes and a welter of random junk. Harry recognized at a glance several things he’d packed away in the attic when he briefly considered living in this dreadful old barrack—things Kreacher had begged him to leave in the cabinets and drawers, where the old elf could fondle them.

Apparently, the ruddy elf had decided to put it all back!

Harry drew in a breath to shout for Kreacher. Then his gaze fell on the camel-backed sofa and the man curled up on it. He shut his mouth with a snap, stared at his husband for a beat, then made his way carefully across the room to him.

Draco was asleep, breathing lightly, eyelashes twitching as he dreamed. A velvet throw covered him—Kreacher’s work, no doubt—but his familiar fluffy, white socks poked out from beneath it. His hair had come loose from its plait and fell around his face in a way that made him look frightfully young and achingly sweet.

Harry reached out to smooth it back. His touch was gentle, but Draco stirred under it, eyes fluttering open. He saw Harry bending over him and smiled.

“Harry,” he murmured. Then he seemed to realize where he was—where Harry had found him—and his silver-grey eyes turned wary. He pushed himself upright, looked around at the chaos of the room, and threw a guilty glance up at Harry through his lashes. “You’re back early.”

“I need to talk to you about something.”

“Oh.” Draco pushed back the velvet throw and got to his feet. “Let me just clean this up…”

“Leave it. Kreacher can do it. Where is the old rascal, anyway? And why did he bring you here, of all places?”

“Don’t blame him. I insisted.” Draco gave him another glance from beneath his crystalline lashes and asked, doubtfully, “Are you angry?”

Harry’s brows flew up under his fringe. “About what?”

“I didn’t ask first.”

“You don’t have to ask. This is your house, now, as much as mine. Probably more, considering that you’re a real Black and I’m not,” he added, looking around the room and noting the unusual warmth that suffused it. “And the house seems to like you.”

“Kreacher says it knows who I am.”

“I expect it does.” Harry turned back to him with a smile. “You’re safe enough here, as long as you stay inside the wards where no one can see you, and at least we know there are no Squibs hiding in the basement. But what are you doing with all this old junk?”

“I was looking for a gift for my mother. Something to remind her of her family.” His eyes turned wary again. “Do you mind?”

Harry made an irritated noise in his throat and rolled his eyes. “You’re doing it again.”

“What?”

“Asking stupid questions. Did you find what you were looking for?”

“Not yet.” Draco eyed the scattered boxes. “Maybe I’ll come back tomorrow and have another look.”

“Ask Kreacher for help. He knows the full lineage and history of every speck of dust in the whole bloody house.”

“But his idea of a suitable gift is an elf head on a plaque.”

Harry laughed at that. “Probably true.”

Draco smiled wistfully, his eyes dwelling on Harry’s face with an odd, hungry look in them. When Harry raised his brows in question, Draco took his hand and prompted, “You said you needed to talk?”

“Yeah, about my new case. Let’s go home…”

“What about this mess?”

“Kreacher will take care of it. Come on. I need a cup of tea.”

“Oh, it’s one of _those_ talks.”

Harry smiled, but it didn’t touch his eyes. “’Fraid so.” Raising his voice, he called, “Kreacher, we’re leaving! We’ll see you at the cottage!”

Then he gathered Draco into his side and turned on the spot.

* * *

Over tea at the kitchen table, Harry put on his Auror face. It was the only way he could do this—invade Draco’s privacy and pry into things they both wished to forget. As an Auror, he could rip off scabs he would never touch as Draco’s husband. He even left on his red robes, just to remind them both who he was in that moment.

Folding his hands around his teacup, Harry fixed Draco with a level gaze. “I need to ask you about some of your father’s business associates.”

“What sort of business are we talking about, here?”

Draco knew. Harry could see it in his face. But like Harry, he was in cool, detached, professional mode and showed no sign of distress.

Was this how he’d survived bedding half a dozen men or more a night? By walling himself up behind that perfect, porcelain mask? Harry didn’t want to think about it, so he shoved that image away and went back to work.

“His business that involved you.”

One silver-blond brow rose elegantly. “Prostitution.”

Harry nodded. “I’ve never asked you who the men were because it honestly didn’t matter to me and because I didn’t want to rake it all up for you. I still don’t care and I still wouldn’t ask if it weren’t very important.”

“Just ask me, Harry.”

“Was Goyle’s father one of them?”

“Yes.”

The answer was prompt, flat and firm, no hint of emotion in it. Harry felt something in him unkink. Perverse as it was, knowing that he’d guessed right gave him confidence.

“And Theo Nott’s father?”

“Yes.”

“How about a man called Sokolov?”

Draco hesitated, thinking, eyes veiled behind his lashes. Finally, he shook his head. “I don’t know the name.”

“Did you know all their names?”

“No.”

Harry digested that for a moment, then said, “One more. Rodolphus Lestrange?”

“My Uncle Dolph?” For the first time, Draco betrayed surprise. “No, not him, though his brother Rabastan was a regular. He had something on my father, so he didn’t have to barter for me. He just used me when he liked.”

“Did Rodolphus know what his brother was up to?”

“They all knew. Harry, why are you asking me about those men after all this time?”

Harry sighed and took a slurp of his tea. Draco had a right to know why his husband was digging into his sordid past, but Harry didn’t relish explaining it to him. He fiddled with his teacup, playing for time while he formulated an answer.

Finally, he said, “There have been a series of unusual events. Attacks, some of them. They may be totally unconnected, but they don’t feel random to me. And the men…”

“My old customers?”

“That’s what I needed to find out—if they were all customers.”

“But why? What even made you think of it?”

“Boggs.”

Draco went very still, his eyes fixed unblinkingly on Harry. After a tense moment, he swallowed and came back to life. Reaching for his cup, he took a drink of tea and set it carefully back down.

“What about Boggs?” he asked in a voice that was preternaturally calm.

“He was the first one attacked. He was mind-reamed by a Legilimens, then his memory was wiped. A day later, Nott and Sokolov were found. They weren’t totally wiped, like Boggs, but they were partially _Obliviated_ , so they didn’t remember what happened, and the attacks were…”

When he broke off, Draco murmured, “Say it, Harry.”

“Sexual in nature.”

“Raped?”

“I don’t know. It isn’t my case, so I haven’t seen the healers’ report. But they were found naked, magically restrained, beaten, parts of their memories gone. It wouldn’t be a stretch to think they’d been sexually assaulted, as well.”

“How do Goyle and Lestrange fit in?”

“Maybe they don’t. But Lestrange is dead and Goyle is either losing his mind or being haunted by your Aunt Bellatrix.”

“Bloody hell.” Draco blinked at him in confusion. “I still don’t see the connection to Nott and Boggs. Or to me.”

“Yeah, it gets a little weird, here. Your Aunt Andromeda may be involved…”

Then Harry told him everything. All about Andromeda’s visits to Boggs and Lestrange, possibly to Goyle. About Boggs running naked through the Manor grounds, chased by peacocks. About the assumption among many of his colleagues that Draco was responsible. About Goyle’s insistence that Bellatrix had forced him to remember something horrific, then threatened to castrate him if he told anyone. About the stories in the _Prophet_ that popped up daily, accusing Draco of everything from ensorcelling Harry Potter to targeting Death Eaters in some twisted act of revenge.

Draco listened to it all in numb silence, until Harry finished with, “I haven’t told anyone, even Ron, about your history with Boggs, and I won’t unless I have no choice. Hopefully we’ll find another connection between the victims quickly—one that doesn’t involve you or Andromeda. Draco, have you ever even _met_ your Aunt Andromeda?”

Draco shook his head.

“Can you think of any reason why she would want to punish the men who used you?”

“That’s what you think is going on?”

Harry shrugged uncomfortably. “It’s one possibility. One I have to consider, ’til I come up with something better.”

“But she wouldn’t… would she?”

“That’s what I’m asking you.”

“Harry, you know her better than I do. Fuck, _Kreacher_ knows her better than I do! At least he met her when she was a child!”

“True.” Harry kept his eyes on his teacup, his fingers turning it unconsciously again. “She probably has a completely rational explanation for visiting Boggs and Lestrange, and as far as we know, she’s been nowhere near Nott or Sokolov. We have no reason to think she’s hurt anyone.”

He glanced up at Draco, and the Auror in him abruptly gave way to the doting husband. “Don’t start worrying yet, Dragon. This is all part of the job—throwing ideas at the wall until one sticks. Most of them never do.”

Draco just nodded. The weariness in his face reminded Harry where he’d found him that afternoon—surrounded by gutted boxes and piles of Black relics, fast asleep on a sofa—and he gave himself a mental slap.

Draco was still recovering from years of physical abuse. He had little energy at any given moment and no reserves. Today’s exertions had probably sapped more strength than he’d normally use in a week! And here Harry was, badgering him about men who had hurt and humiliated him, dragging him into an investigation that could lay bare the most hideous moments of his past, and implicating one of his only surviving relatives.

He was a fucking idiot.

Jumping to his feet, Harry held out his hand to Draco. “Enough shop talk for one day. How about a glass of wine in front of the fire and some Celestina Warbeck?”

Draco’s eyes twinkled ruefully up at him. “You really are cruel.”

He slipped his hand into Harry’s, let the other man pull him to his feet, settled against his body.

“Do you know, I played the piano today for the first time since… Well…” He swallowed, staring hard at the badge stitched to the breast of Harry’s robe. “I enjoyed it. I’d like to do it again.”

“Shall I bring the piano here for you?”

He shook his head. “I like to play it there. That poor old house needs me. It’s lonely.”

“We’re not moving there, Draco. You know that, right?”

“I know. I don’t want to. I just want to visit occasionally, to cheer it up.”

Harry groaned at that and kissed him. “You’re completely mental, Draco Potter.”

*** *** ***

Margot gazed doubtfully the stranger, frowning to hide her trepidation. “How d’you know it was me?”

The woman smiled, showing far too many teeth and making her look like a hungry shark. She tapped one poison-green fingernail on the letter that lay on the counter between them. “I know all kinds of things, Dearie. I make it my business to know.”

“But I sent that to…”

“Your cousin at the Ministry, who gave it to a friend, who gave it to a friend, who gave it to me because _I’m_ the one who can do something about it.”

“You’re from the Ministry?” She couldn’t keep the disbelief from her voice, however rude it sounded.

The woman laughed, her crimson lips pulling still farther back off her teeth and her eyes glittering behind winged glasses. She was terrifying. “Not quite. It’s my job to keep those Ministry hacks honest.” She held out one taloned hand. “Rita Skeeter. I expect you’ve heard of me.”

Margot swallowed the lump in her throat and tried not to squeak when she repeated, “Rita Skeeter? The reporter?”

“That’s right, Dearie. And you’re Margot Carstairs, Evelyn’s Squib daughter.”

“I… yes.”

“Lovely man, your father. None too bright, but that can be an advantage in a man, don’t you agree?”

“Er,” Margot mumbled.

“Lucky for you that you take after your mother. Oh, not magically of course, but these things happen, even in the best of families. Now, about your scare the other day…”

“Uhm. I’m not sure I should be talking to you about this.”

“Relax, Dearie, your secret is safe with me. I always protect my sources.”

“But if that really was Draco Malfoy, he could come after me. Like those men in the paper.”

Rita cackled at that and whisked the letter back into her enormous bag. “Don’t you worry. We’ll scotch the snake before he can strike. But first things first. Why don’t you offer me a cup of tea, so we can chat in comfort?”

Margot shot a nervous look toward the inner door that let into Auntie Mare’s teashop and bit her lip.

“The shop is too crowded this time of day,” she offered lamely, “and I can’t leave the lobby desk.”

The inn was entirely deserted, the man from Middlesbrough having checked out yesterday, and Margot had nothing to do but play solitaire on the computer in the office. But the woman confronting her was dressed in robes as virulent and atrocious a green as her fingernails and wore a decidedly pointy witch’s hat on her shellacked blonde curls. Her bag was made out of some sort of scaled leather that might have been dragon, and her high-heeled boots looked positively Victorian. Between her clothes, her carnivorous features, and her mannerisms, Rita Skeeter was as out of place in the quiet village of Icklesford as a rhinoceros doing tap-dances in the cobbled square.

Margot couldn’t possibly explain her presence to the Muggles enjoying a comfortable cup of tea on the other side of that door.

Rita gave her a narrow look, reading her true thoughts in her downcast eyes and pink cheeks, then nodded briskly.

“Right then.” She opened her bag once more and pulled out a photograph that she slapped on the counter. “Is that the man you saw in Auntie’s teashop?”

Margot pulled the photo closer and glanced down at it. Draco Malfoy looked back at her, his pale eyes hard, his mouth set in a haughty curve that made her long to scratch his perfect face. “That’s him.”

“You’re sure, now? We can’t have any mistakes.”

“He looks different, now. He’s thinner, his hair’s longer, and he was dressed in Muggle clothes, but it’s definitely him. He didn’t deny it.”

“You spoke to him?” Rita looked like a snake that had just spotted a wounded mouse, her eyes shining with greed and triumph. “What did he say?”

“Nothing. I didn’t give him a chance. I just told him I wasn’t afraid of him and saw him off!”

“Shame. Any idea where he’s staying? What he’s up to?”

Margot shrugged. “You can ask my Auntie Mare. He was getting very cozy with her before I showed up. Insinuating himself, you know?”

“Oh, yes, I know _exactly_ what you mean. And I think I will have a chat with your auntie before I go. But one more thing, and this is _very important._ Did you happen to notice if Malfoy was wearing a ring?”

“A ring?” Margot asked blankly.

“Yes, Dearie, a ring. On his left hand.”

“You mean like… a wedding ring?”

“I mean _exactly_ like a wedding ring! Think, girl. We’ve heard rumors, but we haven’t been able to verify it one way or another.”

“It can’t be. Who would marry _Malfoy?_ ”

“Oh, now, I can’t give away _all_ my secrets,” Rita chided. “Just tell me what you saw, and I’ll take it from there.”

“Uhmmm…”

Margot’s eyes went unfocused as she thought back to the scene in the teashop. Malfoy sitting at the table, his left hand curved around a cup. Then again, as he held out a tenner to Mare, tossed it on the table, fumbled a second note from the roll in his hand. The gleam of silver on his finger, catching the firelight, so subtle that she hadn’t noticed at the time.

“Yes,” she finally whispered, “he wore a ring.”

“ _Marrrrrvelous!_ ” Rita purred.

**_To be continued…_ **


	4. Awkward Conversations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! This one was a beast to write! Turns out, writing awkward conversations is as difficult as sitting through them. Hopefully they're more fun to read.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it! From here on in, things heat up fast...

* * *

_Le Monde Magique_

**_DEATH IN ZAGREB LINKED TO BRITISH ATTACKS_ **

_Goran Aysgarth, former star of the British National Quidditch team and owner of the Tutshill Tornados, was found dead in his home in Zagreb yesterday. Authorities believe his death is linked to the so-called ‘Memory Thief’ attacks in Great Britain, though no details have been released. Indications are that Aysgarth, who lived alone, died sometime over the weekend and was discovered by his housekeeper on Monday morning._

_Aysgarth was a British National who moved to his mother’s native Croatia after the Second Wizard War to escape what he termed anti-Pureblood policies and prejudice in Wizarding Britain. Though the Aysgarth family is not listed as one of the Sacred Twenty-eight, Mr. Aysgarth often spoke out against the encroachment of Muggle values and culture on wizarding society, and the need to maintain blood purity in ancient wizard families. He was rumored to be working with Death Eaters during their takeover of the British Ministry of Magic during the war, but no charges were ever filed._

_Aysgarth was a towering figure in International Quidditch for decades, first as a player, then as an owner and financier. In later years, he focused on philanthropy and is rumored to be the anonymous donor who made it possible for the Belizean National Quidditch Team to play in the 2001 World Cup Semi-Finals in Reykjavik, Iceland._

_Aysgarth has no surviving family._   
  


* * *

_  
The Daily Prophet_

**_EXCLUSIVE: POTTER WEDS PROSTITUTE_ **

_Rita Skeeter writes…_

_After weeks of rampant speculation about the connection between Britain’s Boy Who Lived and the fugitive Dark wizard he reportedly rescued from a Knockturn Alley brothel, the truth is finally out. Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy were wed in a secret ceremony sometime before Christmas. No one in the know is talking about where this wedding took place, who officiated or who attended, but this reporter has confirmed from multiple sources that Potter and Malfoy were sporting matching rings and openly bragging about their union as early as Christmas Eve._

_In a rare show of discretion, Potter has concealed his scandalous marriage from his colleagues at the Ministry. Presumably, he doesn’t want his fellow Aurors to know that he is sleeping with the enemy. But he has not been quite so careful when off the job, flaunting his wedding ring and publicly referring to Draco Malfoy as his ‘husband’. The elusive Malfoy was recently spotted in the Gloucestershire village of Icklesford with his ring on display._

_Just where the lovebirds are hiding, no one is quite sure, but one thing is certain. Potter will go to any lengths to shield his inamorato, even to the point of removing him from wizarding society and surrounding him with Muggles. It’s a dangerous ploy—dangerous to Potter’s reputation and future in Law Enforcement, to the unsuspecting Muggles who are sheltering a viper in their midst, and to the wizarding public who cannot protect themselves from a threat they cannot see…_   
  


* * *

  
Harry did not want to move. It was past time that he get up and face the day, but he could not make himself do it. The warmth of the eiderdown swaddling him, the clinging smoothness of the limbs tangled with his, the weight of the head on his chest all held him there. In his own private heaven.

If he quit his bloody job, he could just stay here in bed with his husband. Far, far away from Ernie Fucking MacMillan and The Pillock. At this particular moment, that seemed like a the best idea he had ever had.

“Hmm… Harry?”

The voice dragged him out of tantalizing thoughts of telling Robards to shove his job up his arse and back to the even more tantalizing reality of lying in bed with Draco Potter in his arms. He grunted a wordless greeting and lifted a hand to cradle Draco’s head, holding it against his shoulder so the other man could not roll away from him.

“Time to get up,” Draco murmured sleepily.

“Don’t want to,” Harry mumbled, now combing his fingers through Draco’s hair.

“You have to. Aren’t you and Weasel going to interview Andromeda today?”

“Oh, fuck. Don’t remind me.”

Harry wrapped both arms tightly around Draco’s body and pulled him up to sprawl on his own chest. Then he captured his head and guided him into a long, faintly sour-tasting kiss.

“Eurgh. Morning breath,” Draco protested when his lips were free.

“And you taste like… never mind. It would be ungentlemanly to say.”

“Git,” Draco said, a smile driving the sleep from his eyes. “If you let me go, we can both rinse our mouths out.”

“Don’t want to,” Harry said again, more stubbornly.

Draco squirmed a little, settling Harry’s inevitable morning wood more comfortably between his thighs. “I know exactly what you want, but you can’t have it. If we start shagging, you’ll never get to work.”

Harry groaned, pressing his head back into the pillow and closing his eyes. “Please don’t make me! Please let me shag my beautiful husband, instead!”

“Don’t you want to question Andromeda so you can strike her off your list of suspects?”

“Oh, yes, because that conversation will go _sooo_ well! I can see it now. We pop out of the floo and say, ‘Hello, Andromeda, lovely to see you. How’s Teddy? And by the way, why did you threaten to hex Goyle’s bollocks off?’”

Draco chuckled. “If it makes you feel any better, I have my own hideously awkward conversation to face today.”

Harry opened his eyes and quirked an eyebrow at Draco. “With who? Abraxas?”

Draco smiled dutifully at that, but then his gaze slid away and a faint tinge of color stained his cheeks. “Molly Weasley.”

Harry sat up so abruptly that he spilled Draco onto the mattress and startled a “Hey!” out of him. Then he twisted around to stare down at his husband’s increasingly-red face.

“Did you say, _Molly Weasley?_ ”

“Yes. I’m having tea with her.”

Harry just gaped at him.

“I thought I’d make another batch of fudge as a peace offering, since Weasel inhaled the last one so fast that no one else got a taste.”

“Draco…”

When Harry stalled out, Draco raised a brow at him and prompted, “What?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I am telling you.”

“Yes, but… If you’d told me sooner, I could’ve taken the time off to go with you.”

“That’s why I waited.” He gazed up at Harry, reading the hurt in his eyes, then sighed and pushed himself upright. “She included you in the invitation, but she made it clear that I’m the one she wants to see, and… well, I think it would defeat the purpose if I have you there to hide behind. And if you’re being all prickly and protective—which you would be, so don’t pretend otherwise.”

“With good reason!”

Draco reached over to touch Harry’s arm, letting his fingers skim down it to find and clasp his hand. Harry wordlessly turned his hand and laced their fingers together.

“She’s not going to hurt me, Harry, even if she's still angry.”

“What she did at Christmas hurt you.”

“She says she’s sorry.”

“And if she isn’t?”

“Then I’ll take whatever she dishes out with all the grace I can muster, for your sake.”

Harry sighed and lifted Draco’s hand to kiss his knuckles. “You know, martyrdom doesn’t suit you.”

“Too Gryffindor?” Draco teased.

“Definitely.”

Giving a tug on his arm, Harry pulled him into a kiss that quickly got out of hand. Neither had bothered with pajamas last night, and they were, as always, more than ready to put their naked bodies to good use. No sooner had Harry thrust his tongue between Draco’s lips than the other man climbed astride his folded knees and pressed the length of his filling cock to Harry’s. They rocked luxuriously, enjoying the friction, letting sparks of pleasure race along their nerves and pool in their loins. The kiss became more heated, messier, more frantic. Harry slipped his hands under Draco’s thighs to lift him up and spread him open. Draco bit down on Harry’s lip and let his teeth scrape over it as he pulled back.

“Okay, just one,” he whispered, his voice rough with want, “then we _really_ have to get up…”

“I’m up,” Harry murmured against his lips. “I am so up.”

Draco groaned in disgust at his lewd joke, but it turned to a whimper of raw lust as Harry pulled him down onto his hard cock. Then they were rocking again, moving against each other, the pace quickening with every breath. Rocking turned to thrusts. Sighs turned to gasps and moans. Harry rose up on his knees to get more leverage and pounded into Draco hard enough to force a grunt from him with every thrust. Draco hung onto his shoulders, head falling back and hair trailing on the mattress, cock sliding through Harry’s fist as their bodies moved together.

They came quickly, too overheated to string it out. Draco gave a sharp, “Ah!” and stiffened, clamped down deliciously on the cock impaling him. Harry saw his face go slack with release, felt come pump over his own fist, and let himself tip over the edge with his lover. Pleasure spiked in his groin. Heat flooded him. Spasms gripped his muscles, tightening them, driving him up and in to touch the very core of the man riding him. Then he collapsed back on the bed with a shuddering groan, while he emptied himself into Draco’s willing body.

Uncounted minutes later, when their breathing had returned to normal and the sweat was starting to cool on their bodies, Draco stirred

“Uunnnnghhh!” he groaned, struggling to straighten his legs.

The movement threatened to pull Harry’s cock out of its perfect home in his husband’s arse, and he groaned his own protest. “Ungh, fuck… hold still…”

“I can’t. Ow! I think you dislocated my hip.”

“It won’t hurt if you hold still.”

“Brute.”

“Wimp.”

“We can’t lie here ’til we starve.”

“Kreacher will bring food.”

“Bloody fucking hell.”

With a surge of strength, Draco pushed himself upright and glared down at Harry. He was still sitting astride Harry’s hips, impaled on his softening cock, and liberally smeared with the evidence of their mutual satisfaction. His hair was a bedraggled mess and his lips swollen from the rude, rough kisses they’d shared. And he was scowling in his best Malfoy manner.

Harry thought he’d never seen anything so beautiful in his life.

“C’mere,” he murmured, reaching to pull him down into another kiss.

Draco slapped his hand away. “Behave yourself. I am not going to let your house-elf find us in this position.”

Harry eyed him in some perplexity, a smile twitching one corner of his mouth. “How is it that you—a pureblood brat who grew up surrounded by house-elves—are so shy about one knowing what you get up to in bed with your husband?”

Draco flushed and heaved himself off of Harry’s body, ignoring his incorrigible husband’s whine of protest. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, so he was sitting with his back to Harry, then he said, “I value my privacy. Is that so hard to fathom?”

Harry sat up quickly and put his hands on Draco’s bare shoulders. They tightened at his touch. “No, of course not.”

“I spent two years prancing around on stage and fucking every man who came through my door, regardless of who was watching. I’ve had enough exhibitionism to last me a lifetime.”

“I know, and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have taken the mickey like that.” Harry hesitated, then added, “Only, you never seem particularly shy about your body…”

“I’m not.” Draco twisted round to meet his eyes. “I don’t care who sees me naked. But I care who sees me being… intimate, especially with you. You’re not a punter, Harry, you’re my husband. And what we do together should be private. Special. Not for anyone else to share.”

“I’ll remember that.” Harry stroked his hands down Draco’s arms, turning him and drawing him close, then he kissed him softly. “I won’t tease you about Kreacher anymore.”

Draco gave him a small smile. “I’ve lived with house-elves long enough to know that you can’t keep secrets from them. Obviously, Kreacher knows what we get up to. But he doesn’t have to see it, and we don’t have to flaunt it.”

“You mean by leaving our clothing strewn all over the sitting room and sticky patches on the settee?”

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

“Point taken.” He kissed Draco’s nose, making him crinkle it adorably. “I promise not to tease you _or_ Kreacher, okay?”

Draco nodded and slipped his arms around Harry’s waist. They kissed again, lingeringly, but Draco pulled away before Harry’s growing erection could get too insistent.

“If you don’t get moving, Weasel will show up here looking for you, and that would be far worse than Kreacher.”

“That’s what locking spells are for.”

Draco studied his face, his winter-grey eyes intent, then he suddenly grinned. All the shadows fled—in his face, in the room, in Harry’s heart. “I suppose just one more wouldn’t hurt.”

Harry laughed aloud as he tumbled Draco onto the bed and crouched over him. “Just one more…”

*** *** ***

Andromeda Tonks met her visitors at the door with a gracious smile and ushered them into her parlor. She seemed perfectly at ease, had even prepared tea for them. If their request for an interview had discomposed her at all, she did not betray it. She sat them down, poured their tea, and smiled upon them as if this invasion of Aurors were an everyday occurrence.

The Aurors themselves were not nearly so relaxed. Ron managed to respond to her pleasantries with tolerable ease, but Harry felt increasingly foolish. He had talked himself into believing that Andromeda was somehow involved with both Boggs and Goyle, but now that he was actually facing her, he knew that the entire notion was ludicrous. Only an utter lunatic would mistake this calm, polite, grandmotherly woman for Bellatrix Lestrange.

He was about to make a total arse of himself.

“Well, now,” Andromeda said, picking up her teacup and glancing between Harry and Ron, her brows lifted in enquiry, “it’s lovely to see you both, but I expect you didn’t come here for tea and gossip.”

Harry took a breath to brace himself.

“I’m afraid not,” he said awkwardly, a flush rising in his cheeks. “You see, we, er…” His words petered out and he shot Ron a helpless look.

“We need to ask you a few questions,” Ron finished for him. “Officially.”

“I see.” Her smile didn’t falter, but Harry could feel her withdrawing.

“It’s nothing serious,” Ron hurried to add, “just clearing up some details for a case.”

“Should I send for my solicitor?”

Harry couldn’t tell if she was trying to be funny. Andromeda wasn’t given to humor, even the sardonic variety, but she also was not one to dodge a question or hidebehind other people. He sincerely doubted that she had a solicitor, or that she would summon one if she did.

On the other hand, she wasn’t smiling.

Ron chuckled, as if the joke were obvious, and chided, “Come on, Andie, you know us better than that.”

“I do.” She gave him a severe look. “And I know you only call me Andie when you’re trying to turn me up sweet."

“I’m not…” He began, but she overrode him.

“You boys are Aurors. You have a job to do. And I saw enough, living with Nymphadora all those years, to know that we wouldn’t be having an _official_ conversation, if this weren’t a serious matter. So let’s treat it like one, shall we? You can start by treating me like any other witness, or suspect, or whatever it is you think I am.”

Ron subsided into chagrined silence, leaving Harry to try again.

“This is difficult for all of us, Andromeda. You’re family. We don’t like putting you in this position. But it _is_ a serious matter, and we _do_ need some answers. So if you’d feel better with your solicitor present…”

“Of course not, Harry. I was poking a bit of fun, that’s all.”

He smiled dutifully. It wasn’t remotely funny, and he doubted more than ever that she’d meant it as a joke. But she’d invited his questions and he had to ask them while he could.

“All right, then.” Putting on the best Auror face he could manage, under the circumstances, Harry leaned forward to prop his elbows on his knees and said, earnestly, “Can you tell us what you were doing at Malfoy Manor last week?”

Andromeda regarded him calmly for a moment, then said, equably, “I was nowhere near Malfoy Manor last week. Or at any other time.”

“The servants at the Manor say you were. They say you paid a visit to the owner, Phineas Boggs, that lasted more than an hour.”

“Then they are mistaken.” She fixed him with a blandly questioning look. “What does Mr. Boggs have to say about it?”

“Nothing. He was _Obliviated_ , completely mind-wiped, shortly after your visit. All his memories were erased.”

“Ah. I see.” She gazed thoughtfully at the teacup in her hands. “What day did this supposed visit take place?”

“The servants don’t remember exactly, but the attack occurred on Friday, and the visit was a few days before that.”

Was Harry imagining things, or had her shoulders just relaxed?

“Then you do not think this visitor is responsible for the attack.”

“Probably not. But we still need to know what the meeting was about.”

She lifted her eyes to his face, and they were completely clear. Not a shadow of doubt or deceit in them. “I can’t tell you that because I wasn’t there. I have never set foot in Malfoy Manor and I have never met Phineas Boggs.”

Harry fidgeted with his teacup for a moment, weighing her words, then fixed his eyes on her preternaturally calm face again. “How do you explain the servants’ mistake?”

“Someone impersonated me to gain entrance to the Manor.”

“Yes, but why you? What would the name Andromeda Tonks mean to Boggs? How would it help this person, whoever it was, gain access to the house and its master?”

She shrugged. “What my name might mean to Mr. Boggs, I couldn’t say, but obviously it worked. It got this person through the door and into his presence.”

“Perhaps it had something to do with your sister.”

Her head came up sharply and her shoulders stiffened again. “My sister?”

“Narcissa. She lived in that house for more than twenty years. Boggs was a— a business associate of Lucius’. She would have met him often. Hosted parties that he attended. Maybe had him to dinner or to stay the night.”

“What of it?” Andromeda asked, her cold manner bringing Bellatrix to mind for the first time since they’d started the interview.

“Well, she knew him, didn’t she? Maybe she thought she could get something out of him, now that he owns her estate.”

“What is it you’re saying, Auror Potter?”

Harry grinned at her use of his title. Awkward as it was to question a member of his family this way, her stiffness and hostility put him on familiar ground. Allowed him to react like an Auror, instead of a chastened boy.

“I’m saying that I would understand if Narcissa asked you to approach Boggs for her. She couldn’t ask him to come to her. He’d never agree. But if her very respectable sister came to his door? He’d trip over himself to make her welcome, even if he ultimately didn’t give Narcissa what she asked.”

She smiled condescendingly at him, at ease once more. “It’s a clever notion, I grant you, but entirely wrong.”

“You are in contact with your sister.”

“I make no secret of that.”

“Have you seen her since Lucius’ funeral?”

A moment of hesitation, then, “Yes. Twice.”

“When?”

“Last week. I took Teddy over to stay with her, then went back a couple of days later to collect him.”

“And she didn’t ask you to pay a call on Boggs in your free time?”

“She did not.”

“Did she ask you to go to Azkaban?”

She stiffened. Her eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?”

“We have evidence that you went to Azkaban to see Rodolphus Lestrange the day before he died.”

“Rodolphus?” She glared at Harry in rising fury. “Bella’s husband? Why in Merlin’s name would I want to see _that_ creature?”

“We don’t know. That’s why we have to ask.”

“We’re not accusing you of anything,” Ron interjected hurriedly, “but your name has popped up twice, now, in places we didn’t expect to see it. First at the Manor, then at Azkaban. We just need to know why you would visit these men and if you saw or heard anything that would…”

“I cannot tell you anything about those visits because they did not happen,” she snapped. Suddenly, she looked so much like Bellatrix that Harry had to fight the urge to recoil from her. “I told you, I never went near Malfoy Manor or Phineas Boggs. And the very _last_ place I would go is Azkaban! For any reason!”

“We both saw your name in the visitor’s log,” Harry pointed out.

“Yes, and my name was used to gain access to the Manor, as well. Obviously, someone is using my—how did you put it?— _very respectable_ name for their own purposes! If one of those purposes is to cast suspicion on me and my sister, they are succeeding brilliantly.”

“I can accept that explanation, up to a point. But whoever is doing this is using more than your name.” Harry paused, then said, more urgently, “On the day that you—or someone pretending to be you—came to visit Lestrange, another prisoner reported seeing Bellatrix outside his cell.”

Now she looked genuinely horrified, all anger gone, all haughtiness and resentment. She stared at Harry, hands clutching her teacup until it trembled on its saucer, face white as chalk. “Bellatrix?”

“Yes.”

The look on her face sent shivers down Harry’s spine. “Someone saw _Bellatrix_ in Azkaban?”

“Yes.”

“But that’s… impossible. He must be mistaken. Or mad.”

“He may be mistaken, but he’s not mad. The person he took for Bellatrix hexed him and left marks on his body, so she was definitely there.”

“And you think it was me. You think I… pretended to be my dead sister to… what? Torment a prisoner?”

“Someone did.”

“I…” She closed her mouth, swallowed, and shuddered. “No. It’s not…”

Harry watched all this intently, wondering why mention of Bellatrix had shaken her so badly.

Surely she wasn’t afraid that Bellatrix was haunting the halls of Azkaban! But if not that, and if she was not there herself, then what? What had her so spooked?

“Who is this prisoner?” she demanded in a shaking voice.

“Gregory Goyle. Do you know him?”

“I know the name. He was a Death Eater, wasn’t he?”

“Of a sort. He wears the Dark Mark, but he’s not got two brain cells to rub together, so he was never more than an errand boy or enforcer.” Harry regarded her steadily for a moment, then offered, “He spent a lot of time at Malfoy Manor, doing Lucius’ and Voldemort’s bidding. Narcissa would have known him well. And Draco.”

Andromeda just waited, watching him, giving no sign that she understood his hints.

“Phineas Boggs was also around the Manor a fair bit. He was never in the inner circle, but he had dealings with Lucius.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Both these men were connected to Lucius and his family. Both were visited by women who match your physical description. And both were attacked for reasons we can’t determine.”

“You think that _I_ harmed these men? Why? For my sister?”

“I know you care about Narcissa.” He kept his voice low and soothing. Confidential. “I know she’s lonely in France, cut off from everything and everyone she loves. I also know that she feels she can’t come back to Britain without drawing undue attention to herself. The isolation must be driving her mad, especially now that Draco has turned up alive.”

Andromeda cut him a quick, startled look from beneath her lashes but said nothing.

“Does Narcissa talk about him?”

“Incessantly.” She cast him another sideways look and murmured, “She’s talked about nothing but Draco, since his miraculous return.”

“If she asked you to do something for him, would you do it?”

“Yes.”

“Even if you knew it was wrong?”

“Yes. But she hasn’t.” Lifting her head in a regal, quintessentially-Black pose, she stated, “If you need me to make a formal statement to that effect, even allow you to question me under Veritaserum, I will. I have nothing to hide.”

Harry studied her face for a long minute, reading the utter sincerity in it. He believed her. He couldn’t help it. But at the same time, he sensed that she was holding something back, leaving something unsaid between the blunt, unvarnished truths.

Finally, he said, “That won’t be necessary.”

Andromeda held her stiff, proud posture for another handful of seconds, her chin up and her eyes defiant. Then, abruptly, she softened and offered Harry a wry smile. Almost an apology.

“I used to think it would be thrilling to watch Aurors take apart a witness. I never dreamed that I would be the witness, or that an interrogation would be so uncomfortable.”

Harry returned her smile. “I’m sorry we made you uncomfortable.”

“Well.” She set down her untouched tea with hands that were not quite steady. “You have a job to do. And I understand that you have a… vested interest in solving this case.”

Harry started a bit at that, throwing her a sidelong look. “You’ve been reading the papers.”

“I have, and I know the Press is blaming Draco for what happened to Boggs, though it seems ridiculous to me.”

“It’s insane, but when has that ever stopped them from printing a story? Especially when they can squeeze my name into it somehow?”

“Narcissa says that you and Draco have grown very close.”

Harry gave a bark of laughter. Banishing the Disillusionment spell that hid his wedding ring, he held up his left hand so she could see it. “You could say that.”

“You might have told me, Harry. You and I are practically family, and Draco is one of the few blood relatives I have left alive.”

“I wasn’t trying to hide it from you. It’s just that we haven’t told much of anyone, yet.”

“My family knows,” Ron interjected, “but only because Harry brought him round at Christmas. And because Hermione and I stood up for them at the wedding.”

“You’re a friend of Draco’s?” Andromeda asked, bemused. “I was under the impression that the Weasleys uniformly despised the Malfoys.”

Ron shrugged and grinned. “He’s a ferret-faced git, but he’s all right. And Harry’s completely loopy for him, so there was no getting rid of him.”

“I’d like to meet him.”

Harry gave her a measuring look. “Would you? He wasn’t sure.”

Her brows lifted in mild surprise. “He’s my nephew and Teddy’s cousin. Not to mention, your husband.”

“That’s not all he is,” Harry said quietly.

“If you’re referring to the stories in _The Daily Prophet_ , we both know what those are worth.”

“Some of those stories are true. He was working at that club.”

“Yes, I know.” Her face was sober but kind, and her voice had no hint of judgment in it. “And I know why. I don’t blame him for doing what he felt he must to survive.”

Harry studied her for a moment, then said, “He’d like to get to know you and Teddy, but he’s afraid to ask. He thinks, because of what he is, you won’t want him around an impressionable young boy.”

“That’s nonsense.”

“Well, he is all over the papers right now, and the stories are pretty grim.”

“Teddy is three years old,” Andromeda said tartly. “He doesn’t read the papers. He’s a sweet, open-hearted boy who only wants more people in his life to love. His cousin should be right there at the top of the list. So you, Harry Potter, tell that husband of yours to stop arsing about and come meet his family. The sooner the better.”

Harry grinned. “I will. In exactly those words.”

“See that you do. Now.” She looked between the two men, smiling brightly. “Is there anything else you need from me?”

Harry shot a glance over at Ron and got a slight shake of his head in return. They were done. Rising to his feet, he held out his hand to Andromeda.

“I’m sorry about the interrogation. I hope we can clear this up quickly, without involving you or your sister any further.”

“So do I.”

She rose as well, took his hand, and let him drop a light kiss on her cheek. Then she accepted a hug and a kiss from Ron. After a few polite farewells and vague promises to visit again soon, under better circumstances, the two men found themselves out on the stoop. The door shut firmly behind them.

They exchanged a charged look, then turned in unison and strode down the walk toward the garden gate and the lane beyond. Neither spoke until they were well away from the house, headed for the spinney at the end of the lane where they could safely apparate.

It was Ron who broke the silence.

“Do you buy her story that someone is impersonating her?”

“I think so, but there’s definitely more to it. She looked like she was about to sick up when I mentioned Bellatrix.”

“Yeah, well, I’d sick up, too, if I thought Bellatrix Lestrange had crawled up out of her grave.”

Harry shot him a wry look. “She doesn’t think anything of the sort. But something’s got her spooked.”

“Hm.” Ron walked in silence for a moment, then mused, “You pushed her pretty hard about Narcissa. Do you really think she’s involved in this?”

Harry didn’t answer at first. He wasn’t sure what to say. He couldn’t reveal Draco’s possible connection to the attacks—not yet, not until he was sure—which meant he couldn’t explain Narcissa’s either. He hated withholding information from his partner, and he hated even more keeping secrets from his best mate, but his first loyalty was to Draco. Always.

Finally, as they hopped over a hedgerow and into the snow-covered spinney, he ventured, “Narcissa is the only link I can find between Andromeda and Lucius’ associates. But I hope neither of them is involved. I hope someone is just using Andromeda’s name and face because it’s convenient.”

“Hm,” Ron grunted again. He cast Harry a look from the corner of his eyes. “So do I, for Ferret’s sake.”

Harry just barely managed to avoid stumbling over his own feet. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not completely dim, mate. I heard everything you said to Andie, and I know you think this all comes back to Draco.” He gave Harry the side-eye once more, then pulled to a stop and turned to face him. “I’m not going to ask how. I trust you to tell me, if and when I need to know. But don’t treat me like an idiot, and don’t lie to me, right?”

Harry nodded miserably. “Right.”

“Okay, then. Let’s get the fuck out of here and go find some evidence that _doesn’t_ point to your prat of a husband!”

*** *** ***

Draco appeared on the icy path at the bottom of the hill. Above him, the lopsided silhouette of The Burrow towered, like a harbinger of doom. A portent of disaster. The Sword of Damocles, waiting to drop on his unprotected neck. He gazed up at it, clutching a decorative tin to his chest, unable to pry his feet loose of the ground and take the first step toward it. After a long minute of dry-mouthed fear, he called himself to order and started walking.

It was the same stroll he’d taken with Harry just a couple of weeks ago, but this time, he had no warm hand holding his. No green eyes shining at him. No Savior beside him to bolster his courage. All he had was a tin full of dark chocolate walnut fudge and a grim determination to see this through, no matter what the cost.

He was not a coward _,_ he told himself as he trod the path. He was _not_. He could face tea with Harry’s adoptive mum. After all, Harry had survived tea with Narcissa Malfoy, and that was a much more daunting prospect … wasn’t it?

Then again, Molly Weasley had killed Bellatrix Lestrange in a duel, and his mother had never done anything half that impressive. Or that terrifying.

This was not helping at all.

“ _Psst!_ _Malfoy!_ ” a voice hissed from just ahead.

Draco looked up to see that he was only a few paces from the front stoop, and that Ginny Weasley was leaning out of the door to wave him in. He halted in surprise, earning himself another imperious wave and an annoyed, “Stir your stumps! It’s freezing out there!”

He obediently started walking again, pacing up the uneven steps, staggering as Ginny jerked him rudely over the threshold. She shut the door at his back, then turned rueful eyes on him.

“Sorry. I wanted a chance to talk before Mum got hold of you.”

“Why?”

“Because of this.” She shoved a newspaper into his hands and nodded significantly at it.

Draco looked down at the two-inch-high headline and felt his mouth go dry again. “Fuck.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

He looked up at her, panic rising. “Has your mother seen this?”

“Who do you think showed it to me?”

Draco’s eyes dropped to the page, to the words **_POTTER WEDS PROSTITUTE_ **sprawling across it, and he swore again more vividly. “Bloody fucking hell! I can’t go in there… I can’t…”

“You have to. I’m sorry, I know this is my fault but…”

“Your fault? How do you figure that?”

“Well, it’s Clive the Ponce, isn’t it? Her ‘ _source_ ’,” she made air-quotes around the word, her voice dripping with contempt. “It has to be!”

“Or Percy. Or George.”

“Not George,” she said quickly, then, more slowly, “and I can’t believe Percy would, either. None of my family would betray Harry this way, no matter how they feel about you.”

“You don’t sound all that sure.”

“Well… all the business in the other article about Harry _cozying up to you_ and wanting to give you the Manor as a Christmas present, that was obviously Clive. He must have told Skeeter about the wedding at the same time. Though she does mention multiple sources. I suppose Percy could have…”

“No, that was Margot the Squib.”

“Who?”

Draco opened his mouth to tell her about his misadventures in Icklesford, but a call from somewhere in the bowels of the house forestalled him.

“Ginny! Weren’t you going to answer the d— oh!”

Molly Weasley came to an abrupt halt just inside the room, her mouth falling open when her eyes found Draco. A blush mantled her cheeks, and Draco felt his own heating in response. Then she pulled herself together and stepped forward, looking as though she were about to face a Killing Curse.

“Draco.”

“Hello, Mrs. Weasley.”

“Molly, please.”

He nodded convulsively but couldn’t get the name out, so he offered her the tin instead. “This is for you. Another batch of fudge, since Ron ate the last one.”

Molly took the tin and looked at it helplessly. “Thank you.”

“Also, it’s the only thing I know how to make,” he added lamely.

“That’s… very thoughtful.” Pulling herself together, she fixed sharp eyes on her daughter and snapped, “Why don’t you take our guest’s coat, young lady?”

“Sure thing, Mum.” Ginny snatched the paper from Draco, tossed it over her shoulder without looking where it fell, then held out her hands for his coat. Draco shrugged out of it and passed it to her with a weak, nervous smile. She gave him a blazing grin in return that formed a little ball of warmth in the pit of his stomach.

He had an ally. A friend. Maybe he could do this, after all.

“Come this way, Draco,” Molly said, as she turned back into the hallway that led to the kitchen. “We’ll sit in the living room, where it’s warm. Ginny? Are you joining us?”

“Maybe later,” Ginny replied in a breezy way that Draco wished he could emulate. “Malfoy, don’t let her bully you. And Mum, don’t eat all the fudge!”

Molly snorted in wry amusement and started toward the kitchen.

Draco fell into step behind her, noticing as he did so that she was wearing robes of a dusty lavender, rather than her usual drab brown. She had styled her hair nicely and put off her apron. In fact, she had clearly made an effort, and Draco suddenly felt distinctly underdressed.

He was wearing his faded jeans and fleecy boots, topped by an oversized burgundy jumper that he’d borrowed from Harry. The clothing was attractive and comfortable, even stylish in a Muggle sort of way, but in no way suitable for a social call. When he’d gone to tea with his mother, wearing an almost identical outfit, he’d done so defiantly, stubborn in his insistence that she learn to accept him as he was. But now, in much less formal surroundings, he was painfully self-conscious.

For the first time since Harry had rescued him from Nero’s clutches, he wished he had a necktie. Or proper robes.

Molly led him through the kitchen and into the living room. It was the same cluttered, threadbare room that he had seen at Christmas, but even here, he could tell that she had tried. Everything was sparkling clean. A fire burned merrily on the hearth, and fresh wax candles flickering in the lamps filled the room with warm light. Two deep, comfortable, faintly misshapen chairs were pulled up to the fire. The table between them was covered with a flowered cloth and set with a pretty china tea service. Plates of sandwiches, ginger biscuits, and a rich-looking plum cake finished the picture.

It bore little resemblance to the teas he had shared with his mother. There was nothing lavish about it. Nothing elegant or gracious. But the teapot steamed invitingly, the food looked delicious, and he somehow knew that he could sit down and start eating without embarrassment or ceremony. Molly would probably be pleased to see him polish off that entire plate of sandwiches.

Too bad his stomach was tied in knots and his throat so dry that he couldn’t swallow.

He took the chair she pointed out to him and waited while she busied herself finding a plate for the fudge, then arranging the rich brown squares on it to her satisfaction. She was delaying the moment when she had to face her unwelcome guest across the tea table. Draco didn’t blame her. He’d just as soon she stayed on her feet and moving as long as possible.

Finally, she had no more excuses. The table was full, the fudge dished up, the tea brewed. There was nothing for it but to actually speak to one another.

Molly took her seat and gave a flick of her wand to start the tea pouring. She watched it a little too intently, her nervousness plain in her face, then turned resolutely to her guest. Draco met her eyes and briefly wondered if he looked as terrified as she did.

“I’m sorry Harry couldn’t come,” he said, trying to break the silence and ease the tension. “He’s in the middle of a big case and…” The sentence died out, unfinished, as his courage flagged.

“That’s quite all right. I know he’s busy.” Molly forced a smile, handed him a cup and saucer. The cup had a little chip out of the rim. “Help yourself to milk and sugar.”

Draco nodded his thanks and went through the familiar motions. When the tea was ready, he turned the cup to grasp the handle. The chip was now on the outside. He smiled slightly to himself and took a sip.

Being left handed had its advantages.

“All right?” Molly asked.

He nodded.

“Well, then.”

The tone of her voice warned him what was coming, so he returned the cup to its saucer and lifted wary eyes to her face.

“Thank you for coming today, Draco. After the way I treated you at Christmas, I wouldn’t blame you if you never set foot in my house again.”

“I don’t think you owe me…”

“No,” she cut him off firmly, “don’t let me off the hook. My children certainly haven’t. The fact is that whatever my issues with you or your family, whatever my concerns for Harry’s welfare, you were a guest in my house. I should have made you welcome, not driven you out. I am truly sorry for that.”

“Thank you,” he murmured.

“And I hope, for Harry’s sake, that we can learn to get along.”

“I’d like that.”

“Good.” She sent a plate sailing into his hand and gestured at the table. “Don’t be shy, dear. Have something to eat.”

Draco felt his cheeks heat with embarrassment. He didn’t know if Molly’s ‘dear’ was a slip or a sign of unbending, but either way, it robbed him of what little composure he still possessed. He stared helplessly at the food, unwilling to snub her by refusing but sure that he couldn’t choke anything down in his current state. Finally, he took a ginger biscuit from the nearest plate and nibbled at one corner.

Molly watched him, something approaching a twinkle in her eyes. Then she transferred a healthy portion of cake to her own plate, followed by three pieces of Draco’s fudge. She popped a square of fudge into her mouth. A beatific smile spread over her face.

“Oh, my, that’s lovely.”

“Harry taught me to make it.”

“As I recall, all he did was translate the recipe into Useless Pureblood Snob.”

Draco glanced up quickly and met her eyes. They were very definitely twinkling. He gulped.

“It’s all right, young man. I don’t bite.”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”

“Ron and Ginny would. Bill and Arthur, too. They’d never let me hear the end of it!”

Draco felt his cheeks burn afresh. “Mrs. Weasley, I…”

“Molly.”

He swallowed audibly and managed to force out, “Molly. I’m sorry that Harry and I blindsided you with our marriage. It wasn’t fair. And I understand why you aren’t thrilled to have a Malfoy in the family.”

“Ah, but you aren’t a Malfoy anymore, are you, my dear?” She gave him a warm, sincere smile and said, “I wasn’t thrilled, I admit, and I did a poor job of hiding it. But I’ve had time to think, and the simple truth is that if I want to keep my family together, I have to find room in it for you.”

Draco’s flush deepened. “Can you do that?”

She cocked her head and regarded him thoughtfully. “After today, I think maybe I can.” Another moment’s thought, then, “May I be honest?”

He nodded, his mouth going dry again.

“I didn’t want to invite you here. I only did it to keep the peace. And I expected our little tea party to be a disaster.”

“So did I,” he muttered.

Molly chuckled. “But you surprised me, Draco Malfoy.”

“It’s Potter.”

“Yes, of course. You surprised me, Draco _Potter_. You’re not the cruel, spiteful child I remember, and as far as I can tell, you’re nothing like your father.”

Draco looked away, his eyes suddenly hot with tears. He was about to humiliate himself, but he could see no avenue of escape. He was trapped in this chair, under Molly Weasley’s gaze, on the verge of bawling his eyes out over a grudging compliment.

Then Molly reached across the table to touch his arm, and the first tear slipped between his lashes.

“I’m sorry, my dear. I shouldn’t have said that. You love your father, and you’ve only just lost him…”

He shook his head, cutting her off, then said thickly, “That’s not why…” Snatching up his serviette, he pressed it to his eyes.

“Draco.” Her fingers closed around his forearm. “What is it?”

He blotted a few more tears from his lashes, wiped the tracks from his cheeks, and peered at her over the top of his makeshift handkerchief. She was frowning in concern, her brown eyes soft and sympathetic.

“I don’t want to come between you and Harry,” he finally muttered. “He loves you so much. You’re all the family he has left.”

Her fingers tightened on his arm, then let him go as she sat back. “He has you.”

“I’d do anything for him. Anything to make him happy.”

“Even become a Weasley?”

“If I could. But that’s the thing.” He lowered his hands to let her see his entire face, even though he suspected that it was not a pretty sight—blotched and stained with tears. “I may not be my father, or even a Malfoy anymore, but I’m still… me. And no one in their right mind would want _me_ as part of their family.”

“Why don’t you let us decide that?”

“If you knew even half the things I’ve done…”

“Answer me just one question, young man.” Draco nodded warily. “Did you ever serve Lord Voldemort of your own free will?”

“No.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

“Then there’s nothing more to talk about.”

Draco blinked at her. “You believe me?”

“Certainly.”

He studied her for another minute, then ventured, “Ron told you, didn’t he? About the Unbreakable Vow?”

“He may have mentioned something,” she conceded, smoothing her robes with one hand and avoiding his eyes. Then she shot him a narrow look. “Does it matter?”

“That you believe your own son before me? No. You’d need your head examined, if you didn’t.”

Molly smiled at that, chuckled, and sat back at her ease. “So tell me how your mother’s getting along. Have you seen her since you resurfaced?”

It took Draco a moment to adjust, to realize that they had crossed some barrier and moved onto familiar ground. Then he sat back as well, took a sip of his cooling tea, and settled into the comfortable pattern of smalltalk.

This he could do.

*** *** ***

No sooner had Harry and Ron set foot in their office than Robards stormed in, MacMillan and Warwick on his heels. The Pillock looked angry enough to chew nails. Warwick was smirking darkly, while MacMillan gave Harry the side-eye and sidled into a corner. The office was so small that this didn’t put any appreciable distance between him and his old schoolmates, but it sent a clear message.

“So.” Robards fixed Harry with a sour glare. “It’s true, then.”

It took Harry a moment to realize that the other man was looking at his left hand—at the ring he had forgotten to Disillusion after leaving Andromeda’s house. He closed his fist in an instinctive, protective reaction, but controlled the urge to shove it in his pocket.

Before Harry could speak, Ron shot back, “Yeah, it’s true, and what of it?”

Robards’ eyes cut over to Ron for a moment. “You were in on this?”

“If you mean, did I attend my best mate’s wedding, yes. I did.”

“How did you even know?” Harry demanded, finding his voice again.

Robards tossed a newspaper at him. Harry caught it, unfolded it to show the front page, and felt his stomach heave. He scanned the story in growing fury and disgust, hearing Rita Skeeter’s foul voice reading the words to him. By the time he got to the name of the village, his hands were shaking.

“Skeeter.” He lifted burning eyes to Ron. “How did she find out?”

“The same way she finds out everything.”

He crumpled the paper and threw it into the bin beside the desk. “I’m going to make a point of stomping on every beetle I see, from now on.”

Robards uttered an irritated grunt, drawing their attention back to him. “You realize what you’ve done, Potter?”

Harry’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Whatever I’ve done, it’s none of your fucking business, any more than it’s Rita Skeeter’s.”

“Oi!” Warwick growled. “You’re talking to our Guv!”

“I know who I’m talking to.”

Harry took a step closer to Robards, knowing he was pushing the boundaries and letting his temper control him, but he couldn’t stop himself. He was just enough taller than the other man that Robards had to tilt his head up to meet his gaze, and both men felt the challenge in the move.

“You can’t sack me for marrying another man,” Harry said through his teeth.

“I can sack you for marrying a felon!”

“Except that Draco isn’t a felon. He’s been cleared of all charges by the Wizengamot, which means he’s a free man and I’m free to marry him if I damned well please. So what are you going to do, Robards? Fake up charges to get me thrown off the Force? Try it. I’ll go to Shacklebolt. I’ll go to the Wizengamot. Hell, I’ll go to the fucking _Prophet!_ Because you have _nothing_ on me!”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Robards stepped away, half-turning from Harry and fidgeting with his robes, the fight visibly draining out of him. “I don’t _want_ to sack you, Potter. You’re a good Auror…”

“The best,” Ron growled, earning him a fierce glare from Warwick and a knowing smirk from Ernie.

Robards just huffed and went on, “Much too good to lose over a foolish disagreement. But I can’t allow you—or anyone—to taint this investigation.”

“Have I ever done that?” Harry demanded.

“No.” Robards rocked up onto the balls of his feet, then down. He threw Harry a glowering look. “As I said, you’re a good Auror. It’s all this press attention I don’t like.”

“I can’t do anything about that. All I _can_ do is promise you that I won’t allow my marriage or anything else to get in the way of my job.”

“That’s all I need to hear.”

“That said, I’m not going to allow those two idiots,” he waved in the general direction of Warwick and MacMillan, “to harass my husband.”

“Now, hold on a minute, Potter!” Warwick protested. “That’s exactly the kind of…”

“No, you hold on!” Harry snapped. “I don’t know why you’re so hot to pin something on Draco, but it’s ridiculous, and I won’t stand for it! You have zero evidence that he’s done anything illegal. He didn’t attack Boggs, he hasn’t seen Nott since the war, and he doesn’t even know Sokolov.”

“So you say.”

“Yes. So I say. Are you going to call me a liar, now?”

Warwick gave him that infuriating smirk again. “I’m gonna call you _something_ , Potter. And I guarantee you won’t like it.”

“Enough, Warwick,” Robards said harshly. “Potter’s right. Malfoy’s not a viable suspect, at least not at the moment, and this whole thing has gotten much bigger than a dispute over who owns some piece of property.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, frowning. “Do we have more on Nott and Sokolov?”

“No. We have another victim, and this one’s dead.”

Harry and Ron exchanged a startled look. “Dead? But…”

“Give him the report, MacMillan.”

Ernie edged out of his corner to hand Harry a case file. It, like the Boggs file, was woefully thin, telling Harry that they had a lot of work still to do. He propped himself on the edge of the desk and flipped the file open, holding it where Ron could see it. They read together, eyes flying over the familiar form, then turning the page to find another form in a baffling language.

When Harry finally lifted his eyes from the page it was to find Robards, Warwick and MacMillan all staring at him, waiting for some response.

“I don’t understand. This man was killed in Zagreb. How is it even our problem?”

“Aysgarth was a British National. And it’s pretty clear that our Memory Thief, as the _Prophet_ has taken to calling him, is responsible for his death. Croatian magical authorities have asked us to look into it.”

“Bloody hell.” Harry looked down at the page in English again, reviewing the scant details.

Goran Aysgarth had been found dead in his home in Zagreb. He was bound naked to his bed, beaten viciously, sexually assaulted with some inanimate object that had not been found, and _Obliviated_. He had not died from his wounds but from dehydration, suggesting that he’d lain there, bound and bleeding, for days.

“You think the mind-wipe is enough to link Aysgarth to Boggs?” he asked.

“Not just Boggs,” Robards corrected grimly. “The Nott and Sokolov attacks were nearly identical to this one, except that our _Obliviator_ went too far this time. He did almost as thorough a job on Aysgarth as he did on Boggs, only this time, the man was tied down and alone, not wandering his grounds where the servants could find him. Poor blighter just lay there and let it happen.”

Harry shivered in instinctive horror. “You want us to handle it?”

“I want all four of you to handle it, together. This is one case, now. Call it the Memory Thief case or, if you don’t want to give those tits at the _Prophet_ the satisfaction, the _Obliviator_. Either way, I want this bastard caught before he kills someone else.”

Robards turned for the door, but Warwick halted him. “I want your permission to bring Malfoy in for questioning, Guv. He may not be a suspect, but he knew Boggs—lived in his bloody house for a year—and he probably knew these other blokes, as well. He could give us background information on our victims. Maybe provide the connection we’re looking for.”

Robards threw a shifty look over his shoulder at Harry and ground out, “Discuss it with your team.”

Harry let out the breath he didn’t know he was holding and tried not to let his relief show too blatantly. He could handle Warwick easily enough, as long as he didn’t have Robards behind him, and at least for the moment, Robards was backing off of his insistence that Draco was a suspect. Harry would just have to see that it stayed that way.

“I expect full cooperation on this,” Robards went on. “Share information, pool your resources, and work together. Got it?”

All four men nodded.

“Potter, I want a word.”

Harry exchanged a wary glance with Ron and traipsed out of the office on Robards’ heels. In the Head Auror’s office, he took a seat in front of the desk and waited.

“I need you on this team, Potter,” Robards said, without preamble, “but I also need you to keep your head down. The Press will be crawling all over you, now that word of your marriage is out, and I don’t want them mucking about in our investigation.”

“I have to be able to do my job, sir. I can’t hide in the Ministry.”

“You can be discreet.” Robards slumped back in his chair and studied Harry for a minute, as if trying to decide how much to say. “We have a security leak. Someone is feeding information to the Press.”

“I noticed,” Harry said tightly.

“Until we find it and plug it, we have to assume that any move we make could end up on the front page of the _Prophet_.”

“If I wanted to find the leak, I’d start with Warwick.”

“No. Not him.” At Harry’s sardonic look, Robards sighed. “I know you don’t like him, but he’s a damned good Auror and loyal to a fault. He was doing this job, and doing it well, when you were still in nappies.”

“Then maybe it’s time that he retired. Wrote his memoirs. Moved to Ottery St. Catchpole and spent his time fishing for Plimpies.”

Robards sighed again. “Look, Potter, you have to find a way to work with him. I’ve backed you on this Malfoy business…”

“You mean, my _marriage?_ Big of you, sir.”

“I mean by not dragging his arse in here for questioning! I could have handed him to Warwick and stood back to watch the fun! Remember that when you feel like getting shirty with me!”

Harry refused to respond to that, just glared at him, and Robards went on in a determinedly reasonable tone, “Warwick can be a real asset to your team, if you’ll just give him a chance, and you need all the help you can get with the Press breathing down your neck. I suggest you go to Zagreb. Meet with the Croatian investigators. Get what you can on Aysgarth. We have to send someone over there, and the Zagreb team will wet themselves with delight to have the Chosen One working their case.”

When Harry continued to glare in silence, he gave an irritated huff and demanded, “I thought you didn’t want to hide in the Ministry!”

“I don’t.” Harry scrubbed a hand through his hair, making it stand up every which way. “But I also don’t want to go haring off to Europe. I’m a newlywed, in case you’ve forgotten.”

Robards rolled his eyes. “It should only be for a day. Two at most. If the Aysgarth crime scene is anything like the others, there won’t be much to find. Just make yourself scarce for a little while and do something useful. Right? ”

“All right. I get it.” He braced his hands on the arm of the chair, ready to push himself to his feet, but paused to ask, “Anything else, sir?”

“No.” Robards waved him away. “Go on, get out.”

He didn’t wait to be told twice.

* * *

Harry decided to take a detour through the village on his way home, transfiguring himself and strolling through the square to see just how badly his cover was blown. He counted no less than six strangers lurking about—in the Post Office, the tea shop, the public house, anywhere they could shelter from the cold—and staring avidly at every passerby.

He guessed that two of them were Aurors. Unmentionables or some other secretive agents of the DMLE that he didn’t know about. The rest were almost certainly reporters, though some might be celebrity hunters—Potter Fangirls Ron called them, though there seemed to be as many boys as girls among them.

The wizarding world had found Harry Potter at last. Or very nearly.

Fucking Rita Skeeter.

He was tired, frustrated and deeply angry by the time he began the trek to the cottage. He got up the hill, past the church, then decided that he’d had enough cold and misery for one day. Stopping in the middle of the lane, he did not even bother to check for Muggles before he turned into the crushing darkness.

A moment later, he was standing on his own hearthrug in his warm, welcoming, entirely beautiful home.

Draco was curled up on the settee with a book. He looked up at Harry’s appearance and smiled. The lump of anger in Harry’s stomach melted.

“Hey, Dragon.”

He banished the snow from his boots with a thought and bent over to kiss his husband.

“You’re cold,” Draco said against his lips.

“I took a walk through the village.”

Silver-blond brows lifted. “Why, in Merlin’s name, would you do _that?_ ”

“To see just how badly fucked we are.”

“Oh.” His brows drew down into a scowl. “Right. Skeeter’s bit of trash.”

“You saw it.”

Harry sat down beside him, Draco pulling his feet up against his bum to make room.

“I expect the entire wizarding world has seen it, by now,” Draco said wryly.

“Including Molly Weasley?”

“Oh, yes.” Draco settled back, a smile twitching at his lips and a gleam of laughter in his eyes that intrigued Harry. He did not look at all like a man who had barely gotten out of The Burrow with his life. “But Ginny seemed more worried about it than Molly.”

“So, tea went well?”

“I think so. Yes.” His hint of a smile widened and softened. “We… came to an understanding.”

“I’m glad.” Harry reached out and slid a hand into Draco’s hair, clasping his neck and pulling him close. “Does this mean you’re part of the family?”

“That’s what Molly says. We’ll see.”

“Mm.”

Another tug of his hand brought their mouths together in a long, sweet kiss. Harry drank it in, letting the last of his tension go, then broke it off to pull Draco in close to his side. Draco snuggled against him, let his head fall back against the cushions, and peered at Harry through his lashes. The look was all the encouragement Harry needed, and he sank into another kiss without hesitation.

The _crack_ of Kreacher apparating into the room forced them apart.

“Dinner is ready, Master,” the elf croaked.

Harry answered without taking his eyes from Draco’s face. “Keep it warm for us. I have something private to discuss with Draco and I don’t want to be disturbed.”

Kreacher bowed. “As Master wishes.” Then he left as quickly and noisily as he’d come.

Draco eyed Harry speculatively. “That wasn’t a euphemism for shagging me senseless, was it?”

“No. We really do need to talk.”

“Right.” He straightened up, pulling out of Harry’s arms, and turned to face him squarely. “It’s Auror time.”

“I’m sorry, Dragon…”

“Just say it, Harry.”

“Do you know a man called Aysgarth? Goran Aysgarth?”

Draco cocked his head. Frowned in concentration. “Wasn’t he a Quidditch player back in the Dark Ages?”

“Not quite that far back, but yeah. Have you ever met him?”

“I don’t think so.” His frown deepened. “Why?”

“He’s dead. Attacked by the same person who got Nott and Sokolov. Probably Boggs, as well.”

“And you still think it has something to do with me?”

“Not if you’ve never met him.” Harry smiled in relief. “This is good news. With Sokolov, that makes two of the victims you don’t know, which means I don’t have to tell Ron or Robards about the others.”

Draco continued to frown. “I told you, I don’t know the names of all the men who bought me.”

“But Aysgarth is famous. And not just any sort of famous—a Quidditch star. You must’ve seen pictures of him, even if he stopped playing before you were born.”

“I suppose…”

“So you would’ve recognized him, if he… well…”

“Yes.” Draco scrunched up his nose thoughtfully. “I expect I would have recognized him.”

He didn’t sound exactly certain, but he was saying the words Harry needed to hear, so he accepted them with a triumphant grin. “This is brilliant, Dragon. It means we can close that side of the investigation. Stick to the Death Eater angle.”

“Harry…”

“I’ll show you pictures of Sokolov and Aysgarth, when I find recent ones, just to be sure. But in the meantime, stop fretting!”

Harry kissed him again, a joyful smack on the lips, then added blithely, “I still have to go to Zagreb, but it’ll only be for a day, and I won’t worry so much now that you’re in the clear.”

“Zagreb? Why?”

“That’s where Aysgarth died. Apparently, he fled Britain after Voldemort’s death to avoid anti-Pureblood prejudice. The cunt. Anyway, I need to see the crime scene, talk to the Croatian authorities, and collect the body.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Collecting bodies, the glamourous life of an Auror.”

“I like it.” Harry kissed him once more, for good measure, and bounded to his feet. “Let’s eat. I’m starving and Kreacher will sulk if we let the food spoil.”

Draco took Harry’s outstretched hand and let the other man pull him up. “Heaven forfend that we make the house-elf sulk.”

Harry laughed and tucked Draco’s hand into the crook of his arm to escort him down the stairs.

*** *** ***

The Hogshead tavern always smelled of goats. This was something of a mystery, since no goats were in evidence, but there it was. Anyone who set foot in the dark, dingy, malodorous room learned to accept it without question. And also to scour their robes after they left, lest the aroma follow them home.

The taproom was nearly empty on this January night. Only a handful of regulars had braved knee-deep snow to enjoy a solitary, goat-scented pint. The two figures at the back of the room were not regulars, but this was not their first visit either, and one of them was easily recognizable no matter what her surroundings.

Rita Skeeter made no attempt to disguise herself. She had no interest in subtlety and no need to hide her comings and goings. She was here to pump a source and she didn’t care who knew it.

The source in question was more skittish. Its body was so closely swathed in a thick, winter cloak and hood that it was impossible to tell whether the creature inside was male, female or even human. A pair of hands sheathed in black leather gloves reached down to a bag lying in the dirty sawdust at the figure’s feet and pulled out a single crystal phial.

Shoving it across the table at Rita, the source muttered, “There it is. Just what you asked for.”

Rita took the bottle and examined it. A label spelled to the crystal read _Draco Malfoy/Fenrir Greyback_ , followed by a date and the initials _HP_.

A predatory grin spread over Rita’s face. “My, my. Isn’t that lovely?” She held up the phial, shaking it slightly to make the silvery liquid it contained swirl, then her eyes snapped back to the face inside the hood. “Where’s the rest?”

“Right here.” The figure nudged the bag with one booted foot. “Where’s my gold?”

Rita fished in her dragon-skin bag and produced a velvet pouch that clinked enticingly when she tossed it onto the table. The figure snatched it up, worked it open, and peered inside.

“This isn’t half of it!”

“It’s all you get, until I’ve had a look at these memories.” She examined the phial again, greedily, and chided, “Don’t fret, Dearie. I never cheat a source. Now, run along home, like a good boy, and let Rita get to work. When I’m satisfied that these are the genuine article, I’ll Owl you with instructions for picking up the rest of your gold.”

“Fine,” the source said through gritted teeth, “but if I don’t have my gold by this time tomorrow, I’ll report the memories missing and tell Potter where to find them! Then you’ll have the bloody Chosen One knocking on your door!”

Rita eyed him sourly. Sometimes she wished she were not so principled and incorruptible, so loyal to her sources. Sometimes she wished she could simply hex them and take the memories directly from their fevered little brains, leaving them drooling idiots like poor Phineas Boggs. Unfortunately, she was shackled by her own high-mindedness and couldn’t give this bottom-feeder what he deserved.

“There’s no need for threats,” she said tartly.

“Just remember that if you double-cross me, we both lose.” The source used his toe to push the bag over to Rita’s side of the table. “This time tomorrow, Skeeter.”

“You’ll be hearing from me.”

He got to his feet, stepped over the bench, and strode out of the pub without another word, leaving Rita Skeeter alone with a bag full of stolen memories.

**_To be continued…_ **


	5. New Information, or When the Cat's Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoy this one! Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think!

* * *

****_The Daily Prophet_

**_MALFOY’S WHOREMASTER TELLS ALL_ **

_“My Colin deserves someone to speak for him,” the man known only as Nero asserts. “He’s the victim in all this. You’re accusing him of terrible crimes, but you don’t know him! He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”_

_Colin, of course, is none other than Draco Malfoy, the fugitive Death Eater who has spent the years since the war whoring himself out for a square meal. Nero is the man who harbored him, hid his identity from authorities, and sold him every night for what was, reportedly, a fortune in Wizard gold. Now, with stories of Malfoy’s marriage to Harry Potter burning up the presses, Nero wants to set the record straight._

_“People are calling my sweet Colin all kinds of terrible things—a Death Eater, a criminal, a killer—but he’s none of that. He’s a good boy. He was my best earner. He doesn’t deserve what’s happening to him.”_

_He goes on to say, “I read in the papers that Colin is using Harry Potter, but the truth is, it’s the other way round. Potter stole Colin from me. He disguised himself, lied to get close to my pet, then snatched him away! Colin was crying to me for help, but what could I possibly do, up against the Hero of the Wizarding World? The man who killed You Know Who? When Potter wants something, he takes it, and mere mortals are powerless to stop him!”_

_He has even harsher words to say about Potter’s supposed marriage to Malfoy, calling it, “a clear-cut case of abuse. Control through sexual dominance. Potter is using Colin, holding him in thrall, and making him think it’s his choice. It’s disgusting! But who gets blamed? Not Potter, of course!”_

_Beyond defending his ‘pet’ from calumny, Nero has another goal. He wants to bring Malfoy back into his stable. He claims that inaction by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and crimes committed by certain Aurors have forced him to go to the public with his plea: Find his little Colin and send him home._

_“This is where he belongs. Inside these walls, he was safe. He wasn’t a fugitive or a Death Eater. No one wanted to hurt him. They just wanted to enjoy his company, make him feel special, treat him as the beautiful boy he is.”_

_When this reporter presses Nero for details of Malfoy’s life in the brothel, he turns coy._

_“Everyone loved Colin. Everyone wanted him. I can’t give you names, of course, but Ministry officials past and present, at the_ very highest levels _, have paid more than you can imagine to get close to him. And he never disappointed. Never sent a customer home unsatisfied. My sweet Colin was a treasure! Everyone at The Horntail misses him!”…_

_…For more of Nero’s steamy secrets, see page 6._

* * *

_The Quibbler_

**_BROTHEL KEEPER TAKES AIM AT CHOSEN ONE  
_ ** _by Dennis Creevey_

_…The man who calls himself Nero claims to be speaking out on behalf of his erstwhile employee, but it is clear that his real target is Harry Potter. He spins tales of Malfoy living a pampered life in the sanctuary of a Knockturn Alley brothel, only to be snatched from safety and prosperity to live as Potter’s sex slave. He positions himself as a father-figure to the unfortunate Malfoy—always referred to by his pseudonym Colin—and sheds Harpy’s tears over the fate of his ‘sweet pet’._

_Anyone who has visited The Horntail and seen in what conditions its sex workers live will instantly recognize the falseness of the picture Nero paints. And anyone who knows Harry Potter knows that he would never treat anyone, much less a man he’s known since childhood, in such a way. Malfoy and Potter’s relationship has not always been intimate, but it has always been passionate. To many who have watched them over the years, including this reporter, their union comes as no surprise._

_The truth is, if Harry Potter did snatch Draco Malfoy from that brothel, he certainly rescued him from degrading servitude to an abusive master and most probably saved his life…_

* * *

_The Daily Prophet_

**_MEMORY THIEF STRIKES AGAIN, WIZARDING WORLD UNDER SIEGE_ **

_…The brutal criminal has claimed three more victims, while the Aurors stumble over their own shadows and refuse to look at the one obvious suspect…_

* * *

“ _How_ many?” Harry demanded.

Ron grimaced. “Three. Two confirmed, one suspected but his wife won’t let us near him. She doesn’t want it in the papers.”

“Anyone we know?”

“I don’t recognize two of the names, but this one…” He held out a sheet of parchment to his partner.

Harry took it, glanced over the familiar Incident Report form, saw the name of the victim, and felt the blood drain from his cheeks. “Fuck.”

“Right? Who’d have the bollocks to attack an _Unspeakable?_ ”

Harry stared at the report, turning that question over in his mind.

Saul Croaker was not just an Unspeakable. He was one of the most senior and most respected figures in the Department of Mysteries. Everyone in the Ministry knew his name, in spite of the secrecy that shrouded his work.

Now Saul Croaker was in St. Mungo’s, being treated for physical injuries and spell damage. The latest victim of the Memory Thief.

“When did this happen?” Harry asked himself, as he scanned the brief document.

Last night. After Croaker left the Ministry at half-nine.

The tell-tale tension in Harry’s muscles eased. At least no one could blame Draco for this, since he’d been home with Harry all night. Not that Harry believed Draco had attacked any of these men, but the rising anger in the world beyond their cottage doors was quickly slopping over into insanity. They would need every hard fact they could muster to counter it.

“I’m headed over to St. Mungo’s to interview him,” Ron said, breaking into his thoughts.

“Good. I can’t put off this fucking Zagreb thing.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair in frustration, making it stand up every which way. “Robards told the Croatians that he was sending the Savior over to hold their hands, and they’re wetting themselves with excitement.”

“Sucks to be you,” Ron retorted with a smirk.

Harry groaned and rolled his eyes. “You’ve been spending way too much time with Draco.”

“I’ve hardly seen the git! But that gives me an idea. With you off playing hero for the Croatians, maybe Ferret and I can spend some quality time together. Brush up on our snark. Find new ways to take the piss out of the Chosen One.”

“Just what I need. Well, if you want him today, he’ll be at Grimmauld Place…” Harry trailed off as two familiar figures in red robes materialized almost at his shoulder.

MacMillan and Warwick both looked entirely too pleased with themselves. Harry instantly decided that they were up to something. He narrowed his eyes at them. Warwick just smirked.

 _Smug git_ , Harry thought.

“Where have you two been?”

“We were at the M—” Ernie began, but Warwick cut him off with a squeeze of his arm.

“Just retracing our steps,” the veteran Auror said, with unconvincing nonchalance, “looking for anything we might have missed. You interviewed the Tonks woman about her visit to the Manor, yeah?”

“We did. It’s in the file.”

“MacMillan and I may take another run at her. See if we can shake something loose.”

Harry opened his mouth to protest, then abruptly shut it. His first impulse was to protect Andromeda. His second, and more amusing, one was to let her chew up this self-satisfied prick like yesterday’s lunch. He’d be lucky to get out alive.

Harry wished he could be there to see it.

“Why not?” he said, hiding his malice behind an easy smile much more successfully than his colleague had, he hoped. “Maybe you’ll have more luck than we did.”

“I expect she’s a tough old bint, like all the Blacks, but I know how to handle her sort.”

Magic sparked in Harry’s fingertips, carried on a wave of anger, but he balled his fists to smother it and said, cheerfully, “Well, I’m off to Zagreb. I should be back tomorrow, at the latest, with Aysgarth’s body. The Forensics team want a look at it before the magic degrades too much. Ron and Robards know how to reach me, if you need me for anything.”

“Oh, I think we can manage a day without the Boy Wonder,” Warwick said, trying and failing to make it sound jocular.

MacMillan stuck out his hand to shake Harry’s. “Good luck, Potter. I know you’ll do us proud.”

Harry shook his hand in bemusement. “I’m just going to look at a crime scene, Ernie, not compete in the Wizarding Olympics.”

“The what?”

“Never mind. It’s a Muggle thing.”

“The Muggles have Wizarding events?”

“Oh, for… Come on, Ron.”

He grabbed his partner’s arm and dragged him forcibly down the corridor toward the lifts.

“Keep an eye on those two,” he muttered as they went, “they’re definitely up to something.”

“You really want to let them loose on Andromeda?”

“Seriously?” He shot Ron a sidelong look. “Who do you think will walk away from _that_ skirmish in one piece?”

“Good point.”

“Make sure you’re the one who interviews Croaker, though, and get all you can on the other new victims before Warwick starts mucking things up. And please do check in with Draco, if you get a chance.”

“You worried about something?”

“Nothing specific, just a feeling. He’ll be safe, as long as he stays behind the wards at the cottage and Grimmauld Place, but we’re practically under siege now, thanks to sodding Rita Skeeter, and I hate leaving him with only Kreacher for protection.” Standing in front of the lift doors, waiting for it to arrive, he turned to clasp Ron’s arm. “Just make sure Draco’s okay. Please.”

“I will. And you get your Chosen Arse back here before I have to do anything drastic to keep him out of trouble.”

Harry grinned. “I will.”

*** *** ***

Draco padded down the staircase, making no sound in his woolly socks. The front of his jumper and the knees of his leggings were smudged with dirt, and he had cobwebs in his hair, but he didn’t mind. The attics at Grimmauld Place were fascinating. He’d spent the entire morning in them, digging through piles of old Black relics. He’d found a trunk full of books that made him salivate, and that was just one of many discoveries.

Kreacher had lunch ready on a tray in the drawing room. Draco was hungry enough to leave his explorations for a bit but not to leave all those lovely books behind. He carried a volume Caesar’s _Commentaries_ —translated into French and bound in Italian leather—and another of Ovid’s poetry under his arm. A bit of light reading to pass the time while he ate.

He stopped in the washroom on the first floor landing and pushed the door nearly shut. His hands were even filthier than his clothing. It would take more than a casual rinse to get them clean, so he turned on the water and waited for it to heat. He was standing, hands lying idly in the sink while cool water rushed over them, gazing at a spider that had taken up residence in his hair, when he heard voices from the other room.

One of them belonged to Kreacher. Draco recognized his bullfrog’s croak even over the running water, and he caught the words “Master Harry” quite clearly. He couldn’t pick out the other one.

Alarm made his pulse jump. Shutting off the water, he wiped his hands dry on the towel, wiping off a good bit of the dirt with the water. The voices were growing louder, Kreacher’s sounding upset, and Draco turned hastily for the door.

As he moved onto the landing, he heard Kreacher say, “Ron Weasley is not here.”

“Then we’ll wait,” a strange voice replied.

“Kreacher is alone, and Master Harry would not like…”

Draco stepped through the drawing room door. His sudden appearance cut off Kreacher’s protest and brought three sets of eyes to him. He had a split second to register the fact that two men in red robes stood in front of the hearth—one of them vaguely familiar—and that Kreacher was rubbing his hand in distress, before he heard, _“Expelliarmus!_ ”

His wand flew out of the waistband of his leggings, where he’d tucked it while he washed up, and into the outstretched hand of an Auror.

“Master Draco!” Kreacher shrieked.

Suddenly, two wands were pointed at Draco’s face, and the older of the two Aurors—the one who’d disarmed him—barked, “Order the elf to behave! Do it, Malfoy!”

“Don’t move, Kreacher!” Draco called, instinctively reacting to shield the elf from the Aurors.

“Kreacher must not let them hurt Master Draco! Kreacher must protect Harry Potter’s most noble spouse!”

“Shut it,” the Auror growled. He was a nasty one, Draco sensed.

“Let me handle this,” Draco cautioned. Then, turning to the nasty Auror, he demanded, “How did you get past the wards? You have no right to be here, and no right to threaten Harry’s house-elf.”

“The elf let us in.” The man bared his teeth in a wolfish grin. “That gives us the right.”

“They tricked Kreacher,” the old elf whimpered. “They said they were looking for Ron Weasley. They said Harry Potter sent them.”

“Doesn’t matter how we got in, we’re in. And now that we are, we have a job to do. Come closer, Malfoy. Nice and slow, unless you want me to hit you with an _Incarcerous_ and drag you through the Atrium by your hair.”

Definitely nasty.

Draco took a few cautious steps into the room, edging around a pile of boxes he’d left by the sofa. Both wands tracked him. “Now that you’ve tricked your way in, what do you want?”

“We’re taking you in for questioning on a criminal matter, and if your elf makes trouble, we’ll take it, too. Arrest it for interfering with an Officer of the Law.” Twitching his wand toward the fireplace, he ordered, “Over here.”

Draco obediently moved onto the hearthrug and halted. The younger Auror loomed up at his shoulder. The tip of a wand pressed up under his jaw, forcing his head back. He swallowed, and the wand jabbed in harder.

“Easy, now, Malfoy,” his captor said in an irritatingly pompous voice. “Wouldn’t want me to slip and blow your head off, eh?”

Nasty and Pompous. How lovely. His day was going down the loo in a fucking hurry.

“Now, tell the elf to stay here and mind his own bloody business,” Nasty said.

“Kreacher cannot do this!” the elf protested. “He cannot allow the bad wizards to hurt his master!”

Cutting a glance over at Nasty, Draco came to an abrupt decision.

Kreacher might be able to get him out of this, but it would solve nothing. It would only drag the poor, old elf into trouble he didn’t deserve. If the Ministry wanted to talk to him, he would talk, and Harry would sort things out when he got home.

“Do as the Aurors say, Kreacher,” he said, as authoritatively as he could manage with a wand poking holes in his throat.

“Kreacher cannot let them take Master Draco away!”

“We’re only going to the Ministry. Harry will meet us there.”

“Kreacher will fetch Harry Potter! Kreacher will tell him what the bad wizards are doing to his spouse!”

“You’ll stay right here and keep your gob shut!” Nasty snarled. “Potter is out of the country on Ministry business, and he doesn’t need some ruddy elf bothering him!”

“He’s right, Kreacher,” Draco put in. “Just stay here. I’ll be all right.”

“Is Master Draco ordering Kreacher to do this?”

Draco could hear tears in the elf’s voice. He hesitated, then said, “Yes, I am. It’s for your own good, Kreacher. I’m ordering you to stay here and wait for Harry or Ron.” Another thought occurred to him, and he added, quickly, “And I’m ordering you not to punish yourself for letting the Aurors through the wards!”

“But Master Draco…”

“That’s an _order_ , Kreacher!”

“Yes, Master,” the elf croaked miserably.

Tears were streaming down his cheeks, now, and his eyes had grown to the size of dinner plates. He fixed those huge, swimming, pleading eyes on Draco as Pompous caught him against his chest with one arm, restraining him, and Nasty grabbed a handful of floo powder from the pot on the mantelpiece.

“Take him through,” Nasty growled to his partner. “I’ll be right behind you. And for Circe’s sake, keep your wand on him!”

“I’m coming voluntarily,” Draco pointed out. “I won’t make trouble.”

“Yeah, and I’m the fucking Queen of the Fairies.” He tossed the powder into the flames, turning them green. “Get your arse in there, Malfoy.”

Draco stepped into the flames with his escort.

“Ministry of Magic Headquarters!” Pompous called.

Draco began to spin.

* * *

Neville walked with his nose buried in a scroll, oblivious to the crowd flowing around him. He knew better than to read while he walked. He was far too uncoordinated for that. But the the latest issue of his Herbology journal was too enthralling to put down. Even when trying to navigate the Ministry Atrium at lunchtime.

He tripped over something and looked up, flushing in embarrassment. A tiny witch with white candy-floss hair gave him a dirty look and jerked the trailing edge of her cloak out from under his heel.

“Er, sorry,” he mumbled.

“Oaf!” she snapped.

Neville watched her stalk off, then dropped his eyes to the scroll again, lesson unlearned.

Green flames flared in the fireplaces as he passed, but he took no notice. The Ministry floos were always busy, especially at this time of day. A babble of voices rose and the bodies moving with him abruptly came to a halt. Neville plowed into the back of a wizard in Magical Maintenance robes, and he stumbled backward, once more muttering an apology.

The wizard paid him no mind. He was staring at a flurry of movement around one of the fireplaces. Everyone was staring.

Neville finally lowered his scroll and craned his neck to peer over the heads in front of him. At first, all he saw was a pair of Aurors escorting a third person to the lifts. A second look identified the Aurors as Warwick and MacMillan, and the person with them as…

Neville’s jaw dropped.

It was _Draco Malfoy_. It had to be. No one else had a head of hair like that or walked in quite that poised, graceful, cat-like way. But what was Draco Malfoy doing in the custody of two Aurors? Being paraded like a trophy through the Atrium? Wearing Muggle clothing— _leggings_ , for Merlin’s sake!—and nothing but fluffy socks on his feet?

Neville, like every other witch and wizard in the Atrium, watched the trio walk the length of the enormous room in gobsmacked silence. A few whispers shot through the crowd as they neared the gate. Then a muttered comment. Then a hissed curse. Then a shout. In the space of a breath, the silent watchers were transformed into a seething, snarling mob.

“Death Eater!”

“Whore!”

“What have you done to Potter?!”

“Go back to your gutter, Malfoy!”

The cries sounded all around him, growing louder and more vicious with every step Malfoy took into the bowels of the building. Warwick swept past the guard with only a nod, then marched Malfoy up to the lifts. The crowd surged forward, still shouting, but halted when the guard held up his hand. Apparently they only wanted to vent their spleen with words, not with blows, and they stayed outside the gates while Malfoy and his escort waited for the lift.

Not until the distinctive silver-blond head had disappeared did the solid wall of anger fracture and break apart. People began to move again, drawing into muttering clumps. Neville stood alone amid the furor, staring at the spot where Malfoy had been and the lift that had swallowed him. Thinking.

One of the advantages to being Neville Longbottom and easily overlooked was that people spoke more freely around him than they did with Harry, Ron, or any of the more high-profile Young Wands. He heard things no one meant him to hear. Saw things no one realized were being observed. Understood far more than most of his colleagues gave him credit for. So he knew things about those colleagues that even Harry or Robards didn’t know.

Like the fact that Edmund Warwick only partnered with MacMillan so he could keep an eye on the younger Aurors. He didn’t respect their skills or value their input. He distrusted them, and he squirted that distrust into Robards’ ears every chance he got.

Or the fact that Ernie MacMillan idolized Harry but wouldn’t admit it, even to himself. Every move Harry made had outsized significance to MacMillan because it colored his view of his idol. He had followed Harry onto the Force, doggedly determined to help him save the wizarding world all over again, and every time someone tried to impede Harry’s efforts, or Harry himself took what Ernie saw as a misstep, he viewed it as a personal affront.

Or the fact that both Warwick and MacMillan hated Draco Malfoy so virulently that they would do almost anything to be rid of him. Neville had heard them whispering about him, sowing discontent and distrust where ever they could. Warwick thought Malfoy was a Death Eater and a degenerate, part of the old order that should have died with Voldemort, and proof that the Savior had feet of clay. MacMillan thought he was actively working to destroy Harry but that Harry’s soft heart wouldn’t let him see it. Both men thought Harry was letting his dick do his thinking for him.

Now they had him in custody, and that did not bode well for Draco Malfoy.

Crushing his scroll thoughtlessly under one arm, Neville jerked back into motion and headed for the lifts. He had to find Harry. He supposed he ought to go to Robards first and find out if his colleagues were acting on orders by bringing Malfoy in, but Harry’s instinctive distrust of Robards had rubbed off on him just enough to make him cautious. He couldn’t talk to Robards before he talked to Harry.

This was Harry’s business and no one else’s.

He rode the lift to the Second floor and hurried down the carpeted hallway to the Auror offices. Robards’ door was shut, as were most of the others lining the corridor. Crossing to Harry’s office, he rapped on the door. No one answered, so he tried the knob. It was unlocked, and the office behind it was empty.

As he shut the door again, he looked down the hallway and saw his partner, Anthony Goldstein, strolling toward him. He had a cup of tea floating in front of him and a stack of files in his arms. He spotted Neville and swerved toward him.

“Have you seen Harry?” Neville asked hurriedly, not waiting for a greeting.

Anthony gave him a confused look. “Didn’t you tell me he was off to Zagreb today?”

“Bloody Hell! I forgot!”

His partner frowned in concern at his outburst. Neville rarely swore, and a weak “Merlin’s beard!” was about as explosive as he ever got. He couldn’t remember the last time an actual curse had passed his lips, but he was rapidly growing desperate. He needed Harry. _Now._ Or failing him…

“What about Ron?”

“Don’t know. He said something about an interview at St. Mungo’s, but that was a couple of hours ago.” Neville began to chew his lip, his mind spinning off in another direction, his eyes going unfocused. “What’s up, Nev?”

“Huh? Oh, nothing. I just need to speak to Ron, but I don’t want to interrupt an interview.”

“Can I help?”

Neville looked hard at his partner and saw only honest curiosity in his face. He trusted Anthony with his life. But did he trust him with Harry’s secrets? Harry’s family?

“No. Thanks. Only, if you see Ron, tell him I need to speak to him.”

“Will do, mate.” With a nod and a grin, Anthony started toward their shared office, taking his floating cup of tea with him. “Come give me a hand with this research, if you get tired of waiting for him.”

“Okay. Maybe.”

“I’ll be at it all bloody day! And it’s _your_ bloody case, too!”

Neville waved him off and headed for Harry’s office. All he could do now was wait. And hope Malfoy could handle Warwick.

* * *

He sat in a metal chair at a metal table in a small, blank, bare room that was too brightly lit for comfort. Another chair—empty—stood across the table from him, and that was the full extent of furnishings in the room. He couldn’t even see where the light was coming from, though from its faintly bluish color, he suspected it was a modified _Lumos_ spell.

It was giving him a headache.

He lifted a hand to rub his eyes. It smelled of moldy book bindings and the attic at Grimmauld Place. He thought wistfully of his lunch, still sitting on a tray in the drawing room, and the poor old elf weeping over his fate. Hopefully Kreacher would obey him and wait for Harry, rather than causing a stir. Or punishing himself.

The sound of the door opening brought his hand down and his eyes up, his face instinctively freezing into a perfect, haughty, Malfoy mask.

Two Aurors strode in. The men who’d brought him here. Pompous and Nasty.

Pompous shut the door and leaned against it, arms crossed. Nasty approached the table with a thick folder in his hand. He slapped it down on the metal surface and assumed what he obviously thought was a casual, nonthreatening posture. It wasn’t. Draco read hostility and coiled violence in every line of his body.

“All right, there, Malfoy?”

Draco did not respond, merely gazed at him without a flicker of emotion visible in his face.

“My name is Warwick.” He hooked a thumb at his partner. “That’s MacMillan. You may address us as Auror Warwick and Auror MacMillan. Or just _Sir_ , to save time.”

Again, he waited for a response that didn’t come. Leaning over to brace one hand on the back of Draco’s chair and the other on the table top, he said, more menacingly, “Here’s how this is going to work, Malfoy. We’re going to ask you questions. You’re going to answer them. Promptly. Politely. With none of your cheek. When we’re done, if you’ve been a good boy, maybe we won’t throw your well-used arse in Azkaban, pending trial for murder.”

Draco did not even blink, but behind his mask, he was mentally scrambling.

 _Murder_? How had Phineas getting himself hexed turned into _murder?_ And how had he become a suspect after Harry had assured him that he was in the clear? _What the fuck was going on?_

“If you _haven’t_ been a good boy,” Warwick went on, utterly unaware of Draco’s burgeoning panic, “we won’t stop to think about it. We’ll just lock you in a cell with some of your Death Eater mates and let them teach you manners. Right?”

Draco still did not speak, but Warwick seemed to take his silence as agreement.

“Right. So, let’s start with an easy one.”

Flipping open the file, he took a sheaf of photos from it and slapped one down on the table.

“Our first victim, Phineas Boggs.” He leaned over the seated man again, his posture threatening even if his question was mild enough. “How do you know him?”

Draco stared down at the picture, trying to marshal his thoughts and decide whether or not to answer. The Boggs in the picture simpered at him, a smile curling his plump lips, and winked. Draco looked away in disgust.

“He was a friend of my father’s.”

“What else? Don’t be coy, Malfoy. We’ve been to the Manor, talked to the servants, and we know what you got up to when you were living there as _Colin_.”

“He let me stay at the Manor after he bought it.”

“Even though you were a fugitive without two Knuts to rub together.”

“Yes.”

Draco hated to give into this cretin and answer his questions. It was physically painful to force the words out. But he didn’t see a way out of it, and he didn’t see how the answers could implicate him in the Memory Thief attacks. He’d been with Harry when Boggs was _Obliviated_. That was the essential fact. The rest was just ugliness and noise.

“Why did he let you do that, Malfoy? What did you offer in return?” Draco said nothing, so Warwick answered for him. “Sex. You paid him in sex. You were Phineas Boggs’ bum-boy for the better part of the year.”

That earned him a long, level, Arctic stare.

“How many times did he _enjoy_ you, Malfoy?”

Draco answered that one honestly. “I lost count.”

“I’ll bet you did.”

The Auror slipped another photo off of the stack in his hand and tossed it down in front of Draco.

“How about this one? Everard Nott?”

“What about him?” Draco blurted out, before he could quite stop himself.

His fucking tongue. It was going to get him hexed one day. Or worse.

“How do you know him?”

“I went to school with his son.”

“And?”

“And he was a Death Eater, like my father. He lived in my house when Lord Voldemort used it as his headquarters.”

It was a small triumph to see both Pompous and Nasty flinch at the name.

“And how many times did _he_ enjoy you?”

Draco paused for a moment, rifling his memory.

Had Nott ever come to the Manor after the war? Would Phineas’ servants know him? Was there _any possible way_ these gits could have found out about him?

Finally, he shrugged and took a chance. “He didn’t.”

Maybe that wasn’t entirely a lie. Maybe Nott had fucked him to gain an advantage over his father and hadn’t enjoyed it at all.

“You’re telling me he never slipped you a Sickle or two for a quick blowjob on the back stairs?”

“Never.”

That, at least, was the truth.

“Come on, Malfoy, we know he had you. Just tell us when and how.”

Draco shook his head stubbornly, and Warwick snorted in disgust.

Another picture hit the table.

“Petr Sokolov. Another of Daddy’s friends?”

Draco shook his head again, but this time, he didn’t speak because his mouth had gone too dry for speech. He didn’t know the name Sokolov—or hadn’t until Harry had mentioned it—but he certainly knew the face.

His stomach heaved in protest.

“Don’t feed me that shite!” Warwick growled, his temper fraying and his control slipping. “We know this one did you in the gardens at the Manor! That footman, Alistair, saw him bend you over a bench more than once!”

When Draco still said nothing, he growled, “Playing dumb isn’t going to save you, Malfoy! We _know_ this one fucked you! We have an eyewitness! That’s two, so far, and I’m willing to bet it’s all of them! Fuck, Malfoy, when did you find time to _sleep?_ ”

As he spoke, he tossed yet another picture down.

Draco knew what name he’d hear and braced himself for it.

“Goran Aysgarth.”

He glanced down at the face staring up at him from the table and his heart nearly stopped. One look from those dark, deep-set eyes and he was back in his father’s greenhouse, on his knees, silently begging for help that never came. He was tied across his own bed, bleeding into his satin sheets, smothering his screams in a pillow as a cock threatened to tear him in half.

“Go on!” Warwick taunted. “Tell me you don’t know this one, either!”

Draco couldn’t tell him that. He couldn’t make his lungs expand to pull in air or his tongue move to form words. He was dying where he sat, frozen in his chair, his face a perfect blank mask of indifference that hid his death throes from his tormentors.

Still Warwick didn’t see it. With a disdainful flick of his wrist, he sent the rest of the pictures skating across the table.

“Here’s today’s crop. We haven’t even _started_ on them, yet.”

Draco stared at them with eyes half-blinded by pain and panic. He knew them. All of them. He had let them use him—for his father, for a roof over his head, for money to pay his pimp. One, the Ministry official in the charcoal-grey robes, was a customer from the Horntail, which meant that this Memory Thief had pried into every part of his life.

No one was safe.

Suddenly, Warwick’s control snapped. He was on Draco in a flash, grabbing a fistful of his hair, wrenching his head back. Eyes full of raw fury glared into Draco’s from only a handspan away, making his stomach clench in fear.

“How did you get to those men?!” Warwick hissed.

“I didn’t,” Draco choked out.

“Who did it for you?!”

“No one! I didn’t…”

“ _Cunt!_ ” He struck Draco a vicious, backhanded blow that snapped his head to one side and nearly tore a handful of hair from his scalp. _“_ Don’t fucking _lie to me!_ ”

“Careful!” MacMillan protested, stepping away from the door for the first time. “Don’t mark him!”

“That’s what Healing charms are for.”

Blood filled Draco’s mouth. He opened his lips to speak, and it spilled down his chin.

Warwick twisted harder on his hair, forcing tears from his eyes. “I know what you are, Malfoy! You’re a filthy little cunt who thinks he can fuck his way out of anything, but not this time, you cocksucker! _Not_. _This_. _Fucking_. _Time_.”

He struck again with each word, pounding them into Draco’s face, catching him on the cheekbone, the jaw, the mouth. Draco gasped in spite of himself and closed his eyes against fresh tears.

Abruptly, MacMillan grabbed Warwick’s upraised arm, jerking him away, then dragging him back over to the door. Without the support of Warwick’s hand, Draco slumped forward onto the table, his hair spilling around him and trailing in the blood on his chin. He swallowed a sob and began to shake.

“What do you think you’re doing?!” MacMillan demanded, dropping his voice in a token effort to keep his words from Draco.

“Getting answers,” his partner growled, making no such effort.

“Don’t be stupid, Warwick. Potter will take one look at him and tear our heads off!”

“Fuck Potter. I want this cunt, and no bloody _Savior_ is going to get in my way.”

“Let’s just use Veritaserum,” MacMillan urged. “It’ll get us everything we need without leaving bruises.”

“It’ll wreck our case, is what it’ll do. That shite is illegal, unless he agrees to it, and anything we get out of him with it is useless.”

“So is what you _beat_ out of him!”

“We can always explain away bruises, but Veritaserum leaves traces we can’t hide. Trust me.” He clapped MacMillan on the shoulder and turned back toward the table. “I know what I’m doing.”

* * *

Ron strolled into his office, a half-eaten chocolate biscuit in one hand, a paper cup full of milky-sweet tea in the other. He was humming tunelessly, munching on his biscuit, thinking about everything he’d learned at St. Mungo’s that morning, not bothering to look round at his familiar office. The last thing he expected was to be pounced on by an hysterical Neville Longbottom.

“Ron! Thank Merlin you’re back! I was going to send a Patronus for you, but I was afraid to interrupt…”

“Oi! Nev!” He rocked back on his heels to avoid Neville’s flailing arms and gush of words. “What’s got up your nose?”

“I didn’t know what to do! Harry’s out of the country and Robards is… well, Robards, and I know they’re working on the case with you, so I suppose it’s possible you knew about it but…”

“ _Oi!_ ” Ron bellowed again, cutting off his tirade. When Neville fell quiet, blinking owlishly at him, he said in his most reasonable voice, “Take a breath, mate. Whatever it is, it’s not worth having an eppy over. So breathe, nice and slow, and tell me what’s going on.”

Neville obediently took a deep breath, held it for a moment as if confused about what to do next, then let it out in a rush and almost shrieked, “Warwick and MacMillan have Malfoy downstairs!”

Ron froze.

 _Downstairs_ , to any Auror, meant the holding cells and interrogation rooms in the hidden passages of the ninth level. It meant ugly, hostile, sometimes brutal sessions in hidden rooms, where Aurors did whatever it took to sweat a confession from a suspect. It meant trouble for any civilian unlucky enough to find himself there.

“I saw them in the Atrium,” Neville went on, his voice pleading. “He wasn’t under arrest, but they’ve had him down there for half an hour, at least, and who knows what they’ve done to him by now!”

Shaking off his paralytic horror, Ron said, “They wouldn’t hurt him. They wouldn’t _dare_. They’re out of line even bringing him in, and they know it.”

“I’m not so sure.” Neville was almost wringing his hands. “We have to do something, Ron. Warwick hates Malfoy. I mean really _hates him,_ and I don’t think he’ll hold back, once he thinks he has him in his power.”

“ _Plonker_ ,” Ron growled, his entire body vibrating with fury. “If he touches one bleach-blond hair on Ferret’s head, I’ll…”

“What are we going to _do?_ ” Neville cut in. “I would’ve followed them down there and tried to stop it, but I’m not working the case, and I don’t have any authority to interfere. Warwick would just chuck me out. And Robards…”

“Don’t even say that pillock’s name! I’ll wager my best broom he told Warwick to do this! Well, _you_ may not have the authority to interfere, but _I_ bloody well do!” He dropped his tea and biscuit on the desk, drew his wand, and headed for the door. “Come on, Nev. Let’s go rescue our ferret.”

They took the lift to the ninth level. There, at the end of a long, empty corridor, opposite the stairs that led down to the Wizengamot dungeon and in sight of the black door to the Department of Mysteries, was a stretch of stone wall with the outline of an archway cut into it. At first glance, it appeared to be nothing but decoration, but like nearly everything in the wizarding world, it was more than it seemed.

Ron strode up to it without slackening his pace, merely holding out his wand as he approached. The stone dissolved in front of him, revealing yet another straight, dim, silent corridor. A row of barred cells lined the wall on the left. They were all empty at the moment. A row of metal doors lined the wall on the right, and steel plaques on the first three declared that the interrogation rooms behind them were also empty.

On the fourth and last door, the plaque had magically engraved itself to read:

 _In Use_  
Interrogators: Auror Warwick, Auror MacMillan  
Subject: Draco Potter

Ron stepped up close to the door and bent to listen. He heard a murmur of voices. Most of the words were blurred, but he picked out _Veritaserum_ and something about bruises.

That was more than enough.

Shooting Neville a warning look, he grasped the door handle. It shuddered, recognizing his magic and his right to be there. Then the latch clicked, and with one violent push, he flung it open.

The swinging door caught on something, and Ron heard MacMillan cursing, but he didn’t stop to find out what damage he’d done. Pushing past the red-robed figure blocking his path, he charged into the room, wand up and eyes quartering the space.

He spotted MacMillan first, hopping on one foot and cursing a blue streak. Then he saw Warwick start and turn, instinctively planting himself between the door and his suspect. And then Malfoy, slumped over the table, hair tumbled in a mess around him, arms clutched to his sides as if to shield himself from a blow.

Fury rose, hot and red, in him. “What the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing?!”

Before anyone could answer, Neville pushed past Ron and lunged for the table, crying, “Malfoy!”

“Keep off, Longbottom!” Warwick spat. “This isn’t your affair!”

“Well, it sure as hell is _mine!_ ” Ron shot back. “And you’ve got no business interrogating this witness without my knowledge!”

“We couldn’t wait for you or Potter,” Warwick said, still with his usual arrogant swagger. “And we don’t have to ask your permission to question a _suspect!_ ”

Neville ignored them both. He’d reached Malfoy and was bent over him, steadying him as he sat up to reveal a face streaked with blood and rapidly swelling with bruises.

“Are you all right?” he asked anxiously.

Malfoy could barely move his jaw, so his words came out slurred. “’M fucking brilliant.”

“ _Suspect?_ ” Ron demanded, trying to focus on Warwick and ignore Ferret’s battered face. “Since when is Malfoy a suspect in this or _any_ case?”

“Since we got new information tying him to the victims. We’ve got him cold on two—eyewitness accounts of his sexual relations with Boggs and Sokolov—and he’ll confess to the others before we’re done.”

Ron clenched his fists, fighting the urge to plant one in the middle of Warwick’s smirking face.

“You _are_ done, or you wouldn’t be talking about using Veritaserum! You must be pretty, fucking desperate to risk blowing our case like this.”

“Potter needs to know the truth! Whatever it takes!” MacMillan protested. He was hunched in a chair, clutching his right foot, face red and eyes watering.

Ron devoutly hoped that he’d broken his foot.

“You utter, fucking wanker. This interrogation is officially over.” Shooting a frowning glance at Malfoy, he called, “Let’s go, mate!”

“Mm.”

Malfoy tried to push himself to his feet but wavered and would have fallen without Neville’s hand on his arm. Ron elbowed his way around Warwick—making sure to jab him hard in the ribs—to help Neville hoist their friend out of the chair and escort him to the door. They were nearly across the threshold when something else occurred to him.

“Where’s his wand?” MacMillan and Warwick exchanged a shifty look. Thrusting out his hand, Ron demanded, “Give it here.”

Warwick scowled for another moment, then reached into his robes, pulled out a wand, and slapped it across Ron’s palm. Ron promptly handed it to Malfoy, making Warwick grind his teeth and MacMillan utter a garbled protest. Malfoy took the wand and stared at it as if he didn’t recognize it.

“Is that yours?” Ron prompted.

Another moment staring at it, and Malfoy nodded.

“They take your shoes, too?”

“No.”

“You’re nothing but fucking wankers, the pair of you,” he growled at his colleagues, “pulling a man out of his home without his fucking shoes! I ought to report you both to Shacklebolt! Come on, Malfoy,” he grabbed Draco’s free arm, “we’re out of here.”

“You’re going to regret this, Weasley!” Warwick bellowed after the three men, his voice pushing them ever faster down the hallway. “We’re going to nail Malfoy’s skinny arse for this, and you’ll go down with him, you _and_ Potter, if you don’t watch yourselves!”

Warwick’s threats were cut off when they stepped through the magical archway and the wall solidified behind them. Ron paused, suddenly aware that Malfoy was trembling violently and breathing in harsh gasps. He turned to peer at him.

“Ferret? You okay?”

“Mm.”

Malfoy didn’t seem to be able to get out anything more coherent. He put a hand up to cup his swollen jaw, then touched his lip gingerly. His fingers came away red. Neville conjured a handkerchief and held it out to him.

“Here. You’re bleeding.”

Malfoy accepted it with another wordless grunt. He pressed the cloth to his split lip and closed his eyes, wavering, nearly falling. Ron quickly slipped an arm around his shoulders to catch him and was surprised that the usually twitchy ferret did not pull away. Instead, he leaned gratefully against Ron’s taller body.

Holding him like this, standing this close to him, Ron could feel the breath sobbing in his lungs and see his hand shaking, even in the darkness of the passage. Bending down to bring his mouth close to Draco’s ear, he said quietly, “You’re scaring me. What happened in there?”

“Nngh… nothing.” The word coming out soggy and slurred.

“Did they…” Ron broke off to clear his throat. Then he tried again. “Did those bastards hurt you? More than knocking you about, I mean?”

Malfoy shook is head.

“Well, that’s a bloody relief!”

“I need Harry,” Malfoy mumbled.

“He’s still in Zagreb.”

He choked at that, sagged, and Ron could have sworn he heard a sob muffled in the handkerchief.

“Hey. It’s over, Ferret. You’re safe. I’ll get you home and lock down the wards, and they won’t be able to touch you again.”

“It’s not that.” Malfoy pulled the handkerchief away and swallowed the blood in his mouth to make himself understood. “I need to talk to Harry. It’s important.”

“You can talk to me,” Ron offered.

He shook his head again, his gaze sliding away. “I need Harry.”

“Er, Ron?” Neville ventured, breaking nervously in on their low-voiced conversation. “We’d better go, if we don’t want Warwick to catch us out here.”

“Right.”

Shooting Malfoy a frowning, worried look, Ron shifted his hold on the smaller man to start him moving down the hallway. Malfoy swallowed another mouthful of blood, making a small, plaintive sound, and leaned trustingly into Ron’s body. Ron had to swallow, himself, to clear the sudden tightness from his throat.

“Come on, Ferret,” he murmured roughly, “let’s get you home.”

* * *

“Did you get what you needed?” Robards asked, without looking up from the file on his desk.

Warwick stumped over to the nearest chair and threw himself into it. “Weasley and Longbottom queered our play,” he growled. “Fucking rookies! Sticking their noses in where they don’t belong! That Weasley’s getting as bad as Potter!”

Robards fixed him with a sour glare. “Potter and Weasley are two of my best men.”

“They’re _children_. Arrogant, reckless _children_ , who think five minutes of fame makes them better than Aurors who’ve got _years_ on the job!”

“They have years on the job. And they have a record that surpasses even yours.”

“So, what’re you saying, Guv? You’re taking Potter’s side? You’re cutting that Malfoy twat loose, when you _know_ he’s responsible for the attacks?”

“I don’t know anything, except that you and Potter are both a bit too sure of yourselves. You’re sure Malfoy is guilty. Potter is sure he’s innocent. Neither of you are looking at the evidence objectively.”

“I’ll get you evidence. Just leave me alone in a room with Malfoy for an hour.”

Robards’ expression turned more sour still. “You haven’t got him in a room. And now that Potter knows you’re after his precious husband, you aren’t likely to.”

Warwick grinned. “Oh, we’ll get him back. Never fear.”

“Do I want to know how?”

The wolfish grin widened. “Let’s just say that what you don’t know can’t come back to bite you on the arse.”

“Hmph. Just be careful, Ed. I took a risk, letting you move on him without informing Potter, and you blew it.”

“Me! I had the cunt right where I…”

Robards held up a hand to silence him. “Keep the _twat_ and _cunt_ business to yourself. It’s against regulations, and it’s bloody stupid. I have to manage Potter. To do that, I need him to trust me…”

“Manage him!” Warwick snorted. “Do us all a favor and sack him.”

Robards went on as if he hadn’t interrupted. “Be careful, watch your language, and don’t move on Malfoy again until you have something big enough to break him. Got it?”

Warwick stared at him for a burning minute, then finally relaxed and nodded. “Big enough to break him.” A smirk creased his face. “Got it, Guv. You can count on me.”

*** *** ***

Draco sat huddled in a kitchen chair, his hands clamped around a teacup. He didn’t want the tea. His stomach wouldn’t tolerate it. But he needed something to hold onto to control his shaking.

Granger clucked and fussed over his damaged face, while Weasley prowled the floor restlessly, his daughter cradled against his shoulder. Draco could hear his uneven footsteps and the slapping of his robes against his tall boots. The sound only aggravated his nerves and made him want to jump out of his skin.

He had to tell Harry. He had to find him, drag him home, and tell him what he’d seen in that interrogation room. Then, maybe, the jangling tension would ease. His thoughts would stop tumbling. His hands would stop trembling. He could breathe without wanting to scream.

Maybe.

“ _Will_ you hold still, Ron?” Granger scolded. “You’re going to upset Rose!”

As if to prove her point, the baby began to squirm and wail. Weasley came to a halt in front of the cold hearth and jiggled Rose a bit to calm her. The lack of a fire reminded Draco that they hadn’t yet fetched Kreacher from Grimmauld Place. The poor old elf was probably in hysterics, by now.

“Can you heal him?” Weasley demanded. “How long will it take for those bruises to fade?”

“It will take as long as it takes,” she retorted brusquely.

“But Harry can’t see him like…”

“Honestly, Ronald! Do you think you can hide this from Harry?” Her eyes focused on Draco, their gazes meeting. “Either of you?”

Draco shook his head, earning him a hiss from his nurse. He fell still again, only wincing slightly as she hit him with an _Episkey._ The gash in his lip knit itself together, and he pushed his tongue against it experimentally.

“Careful, it’s not fully healed,” Granger chided.

Draco grunted and shut his eyes so she could dab a cloth soaked with Dittany around his blackened eye. The familiar feel of the potion against bruised flesh soothed him. Calmed him. He felt his shoulders relax just a little.

“You should go to St. Mungo’s,” Granger murmured, as she shifted her attention to his swollen jaw. “Let a real healer have a look at you.”

“He’s not setting foot outside these wards,” Weasley snapped.

“I don’t need a healer,” Draco replied, more quietly. “They’re only bruises.”

“You can’t be sure!”

“I can.” He gave her a straight look that brought a flush to her cheeks, even before he said, “This isn’t my first beating, you know.”

She huffed out her breath to cover her embarrassment, then clucked and started in with the Dittany again. “Well, it’s going to get worse before it gets better.”

“I know that, too.”

“I’ll get you a pain potion to help you sleep tonight. Maybe a soak in the bath would help.”

“You don’t have to mother me, Granger. And you don’t have to stay here with me.”

“Yes, she does!” Weasel half-shouted. “There’s no way I’m leaving you alone in this state!”

“I’m not in a _state_ …”

“Harry would have my bollocks if I let anything happen to you!”

“You’re shaking,” Granger said quietly, undercutting Weasley’s bluster and Draco’s protests. She put a hand on his arm and gave it a squeeze. “And you flinch every time I touch you. I know you’re upset about something, Draco. I wish you’d tell me what it is.”

“It’s nothing.”

He pulled gently out of her clasp and, just to be doing something, took a drink of his tea. His stomach clenched at the intrusion.

 _Fuck_ , he felt awful! If only they would both leave him alone and let him sleep! Or better yet, go find Harry for him!

He needed Harry. He needed him so badly it hurt. He’d even happily deal with the inevitable explosion when his husband saw the bruises on his face, if it meant he could have him here, talk to him, tell him the truth about those men, then lie down in his arms and let go of the horror…

“Ferret.”

He looked up and around, jerked out of his reverie by the soft voice near his shoulder.

Granger was gone. The baby was gone. The array of potion bottles on the table was gone. Had he really been that out of it?

“She’s upstairs, settling Rosie in for a nap,” Ron said in answer to his unasked question, “and I think you passed out in your chair.”

He was crouched beside Draco, gazing up at him, his freckled face kind and worried.

“I’m okay,” Draco insisted—convincing no one, he was sure, least of all himself, “I just need to talk to Harry.”

“Can’t you tell me? Because if those two pricks did someth—”

“No, it’s not about them. It’s about the case.”

He brightened. “Then you _can_ tell me! I know everything about it that Harry does, and he’ll just pass it on to me, anyway!”

Draco considered that, his gaze steady on Ron’s face, trying to find the courage to say all the things that needed saying if he hoped to explain what he’d learned. Finally, he ventured, “They showed me pictures of those men. The ones who…”

Ron nodded encouragingly when he stalled out.

“I recognized them. I know them.”

“Of course you do. They’re all collaborators. Voldemort supporters. You would’ve seen them around the Manor, trying to…”

Draco shook his head, cutting him off. “Not like that.”

“Okay, so… how? How do you know them?”

He stared down into Ron’s face, mouth open, breath drawn in, nothing coming out.

“Ferret?” Ron paused, looking expectant, then murmured, “Does this have something to do with what Warwick said in the interrogation room? About you and Boggs? Because, one, I’d believe you over that prick Warwick any day, and if you tell me he’s wrong, then he’s fucking wrong. And two, it’s none of my bloody business who you were shagging when you and Harry weren’t together, so as long as Harry doesn’t care, then neither do I. And three, I know for a fact you didn’t _Obliviate_ those men, so whatever Warwick thinks he’s found, it’s worth fuck-all to our investigation!”

He paused again, broke out in a grin, and asked, “Did I miss anything?”

Draco almost smiled in answer. “I think you hit the high points.”

“You really can tell me, if you want.”

Draco shook his head again, very slightly. “What I want is to take a hot bath, then sleep ’til my face stops hurting.”

Ron absorbed his rebuff without flinching. He sounded perfectly cheerful when he said, “Good idea. I’m headed back to the Ministry to see what the wankers are up to. I’ve sent Harry a Patronus, but he didn’t answer, so I expect he’s caught up with the Croatians and can’t get away.”

Draco nodded understanding.

“I’ll get him back here as soon as I can. In the meantime, you need to stay in this cottage, inside the wards, and keep the floo locked. No visitors. The wards will let me and Harry through but no one else.”

“What about Kreacher?”

Ron glanced around at that, suddenly noticing the house-elf’s absence. “Where is the little git?”

“Back at Grimmauld Place, probably worrying himself into a fit. I ordered him to wait there, and I haven’t had a chance to go back.”

“I’ll stop by on my way into the Ministry.”

“Tell him I’m home and everything’s fine. And make sure he’s not punishing himself.”

“Will do. Anything else you need? ’Mione will be here, just so you have an extra wand if there’s trouble, and so I don’t go completely mental worrying about you.”

“I can take care of myself, Weasel.”

“I know you can, but I still worry. Me and Kreacher, both.”

Draco finally did manage to muster a smile. Or half of one. It made his face ache. Pushing himself out of his chair, he braced a hand on the table for balance and was relieved to see that it was barely shaking.

“Thanks for the rescue today,” he murmured.

Ron grinned happily and bounced to his feet. “I’d say ‘any time’, but I seriously don’t ever want to do that again. _Ever._ ”

“Me, either. Tell Longbottom I said thanks?”

“Yeah.”

With a final nod and another half-smile, Draco turned away, headed for the stairs. And the bath. And the bed where Harry was supposed to be but wasn’t.

It was going to be a long night.

**_To be continued…_ **


	6. The Blows Keep Coming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was reeeeeeeally hard to write! Maybe it's because Harry is so angry through the whole thing (one can only have him snarl, " _Fuck!_ " so many times before it gets wearing). Whatever the reason, it drove me to distraction, throttled my muse, and nearly forced me to abandon the story all together. So I decided, rather than killing the story, to just post the bloody thing and be done with it. 
> 
> I hope I'm just being melodramatic and the chapter works better than I think it does.
> 
> Thank you for sticking with the story! Thank you for your comments and Kudos; they keep me writing!
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

_The Daily Prophet_

**_EXCLUSIVE SERIES: MALFOY AND POTTER, THE UNTOLD STORY_ **

_…Harry Potter’s life has long been the subject of intense fascination. Biographies and exposés abound. But few have known the Boy Who Lived as long or as well as our own Rita Skeeter, who befriended Potter when he was still a ragged orphan, raised by Muggles, struggling to find his place in the wizarding world. Rita’s brilliant insights have given us our most moving and revealing portraits of the legendary hero, showing him at his best and worst, never balking at the truth._

_Now, determined to finish the picture and show us the real Harry Potter, warts and all, Rita turns her discerning eye and ruthless quill on Potter’s scandalous relationship with Draco Malfoy, the most hated man in Wizarding Britain. In an exclusive series of articles about the notorious couple, she drops the final veil, uncovers the darkest of secrets, and unmasks the love of Harry Potter’s life for who he really is…_

**_PART ONE: THE BOY WHO LOVED_ **

_…In the wake of recent events, Harry Potter’s adoring public is struggling to understand what has happened to their fair-haired hero. They blame love potions, blackmail, mental instability and even the Imperius Curse for Potter’s sudden about-face. How could the boy who saved them from You-Know-Who become the man who married a disgraced, degenerate Dark wizard? It must be some kind of sinister spell that has turned their beloved Savior into the pawn of a scheming prostitute!_

_The truth, according to Rita Skeeter, is far more shocking. “You’ll never believe it!” she tells us. “I’ve known Harry Potter since he was twelve, known him better than even Albus Dumbledore, and I didn’t see this one coming!”_

_According to Rita, Potter’s liaison with Malfoy is nothing new. In fact, Potter and Malfoy have been involved in a clandestine romance since their days at Hogwarts._

_As Rita describes it, “Those two boys couldn’t keep their hands off each other! They were always sneaking off into some corner of the castle for a snog and a cuddle. Of course, no one could know. Potter’s reputation would never survive it, and Malfoy… well, let’s just say that Daddy’s friends would not approve!”_

_To keep their secret safe, the boys built themselves a private love-nest, a room where they could spend the night in each others’ arms, safe from discovery. “It was quite clever,” Rita concedes. “I’m sure dear Harry had a bit of help from his friends with that one. But once the spells were in place, he could spend every night with his Slytherin lover, no one the wiser. Not that they stayed in their room, oh no! There was also the Prefect’s bathroom—lovely place for a midnight swim—the hospital wing, and pretty much any place where they could get cozy.”_

_But what really went on inside that hidden room?_

_Rita, as usual, cuts right to the chase. “Oh, Malfoy’s always been an expert at manipulation. Even at that age, he knew just how to play on Harry’s sympathies. His stories about what his father put him through, even allowing werewolf Fenrir Greyback to rape him on the Dark Lord’s orders, would make the hair stand up on your head!”_

_Were the stories true, we ask? “Now, now, I’m not giving away any secrets,” she scolds good-naturedly. “You’ll just have to read my upcoming stories.”…_

_…So how did a boy like Malfoy ever end up in Harry Potter’s bed? Was it a case of True Love? Or was Potter’s scandalous schoolboy romance really just a cry for help? As always, Rita has the answer._

_“Harry was a boy desperate to be loved. The loss of his parents at such a young age left him starved for affection. We’ve seen the outward effects of that time and time again over the years—his thirst for attention, his need for approval, his deliberate attempts to harm himself in a constant bid for fame and accolades. This pattern has only become more dangerous as he moves into adulthood—Potter the Auror, Potter the public figure, Potter the rescuer of the downtrodden—and now we see the tragic result!”…_

_Up next in Rita’s exclusive series: **Bond Slave, the Truth About Draco Malfoy and the Dark Lord**_

_And don’t miss these sizzling installments: **Malfoy Manor, House of Horrors** ; **Hand-Me-Down Whore** ; **The Savior Beyond Saving?**_

* * *

It seemed that Harry’s entire life was going down the loo in one day and he had no clue how to stop it. He considered himself a resilient human being—war had certainly forced him to be—but a man could absorb only so many blows before he faltered, and Harry was quickly reaching his limits. Even the Chosen One could only take so much.

The first blow came when he trudged into his office at the Ministry, weary and anxious and unfit for any sort of company, to find Ron there before him.

“You’re back! Thank Merlin!” his partner cried upon seeing him in the doorway.

“Yeah.” Harry shut the door and slumped into the empty chair across the desk from him. “Sorry it took so long, but you have no idea what it’s like trying to get a dead body through Customs. Fuck, I’m tired.”

“You look like hell.”

“Ta, very much. You’d look like hell, too, if you’d spent the last twenty-four hours trying to investigate a murder while every witch and wizard in the entire, bloody country gawped at you like you were a carnival freak.” He scrubbed his hand through his hair and groaned. “They had a feast for me. Can you believe it? A fucking _feast!_ I was up ’til one o’clock this morning, listening to speeches and drinking toasts and getting my ruddy picture taken!”

“I figured when you didn’t answer my Patronus that you were up to your neck in it.”

Harry groaned again and rolled his eyes. “It arrived in the middle of a witness interview. Landed on the table right in front of the Squib Housekeeper who found Aysgarth’s body and nearly sent her into hysterics. I guess she’d never seen one before…”

“Sorry,” Ron said ruefully.

“What was that all about, anyway?”

Ron’s face fell. “You haven’t been home?”

“With a corpse on my hands? No, I haven’t. Why?”

“Go home, mate. Talk to Ferret.”

Harry straightened up, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Not ’til you tell me what the fuck is going on.”

Ron gulped and offered him a weak smile. “Promise not to light anything on fire, if I tell you?”

“ _No_.”

“Okay. Well. The thing is… er… Warwick and MacMillan brought Malfoy in for questioning yesterday.”

Harry stiffened, magic sparking hot in his fingertips. “They _what?!_ ”

“See, that’s why I didn’t want to tell you…”

The parchment closest to him began to blacken and curl, while the newspaper in front of Ron burst into merry flame. “They _interrogated_ my _HUSBAND?!_ ”

“Yeah. Harry, mate, calm down and listen to me!” Ron used his sleeve to smother the biggest flames, then flung a smoldering scrap of paper on the floor and stomped on it. “ _Calm_ the fuck _down!_ ”

Harry took a deep breath, struggling to rein in his fury and his magic, then slumped nervelessly back in his chair. Another piece of parchment caught fire, drawing another curse and another swift move to quench the flames from Ron. Harry shut his eyes and tried to breathe.

“Why didn’t you tell me this yesterday?!” he ground out, eyes still tightly shut.

“Because what were you going to do about it from fucking _Croatia?!_ ”

“But you sent the Patronus…”

“Ferret asked me to. He wanted to talk to you.”

“And you didn’t tell me _that,_ either!”

“I figured that you’d answer, if you could. If you couldn’t, there was no point in having you burn down the Croatian Ministry in a rage.”

“Bloody fucking hell, Ron!” His eyes snapped open to fix accusingly on his partner. “This is Draco, we’re talking about! My husband! How did they think they would get away with _interrogating him?!_ ”

“Robards authorized it.”

That finally shut Harry up, reducing him to stunned, disbelieving silence. He just stared, while Ron brushed ashes from the desktop and stacked the damaged parchment neatly into its folders.

“Warwick claimed to have new information that made Ferret a suspect. He got Robards’ permission to bring him in, then he tricked poor old Kreacher into letting him past the wards at Grimmauld Place. Ferret was there.” Ron gave him a level stare. “Which they knew because they overheard us talking about it.”

“ _Fuck._ ”

“Malfoy went along without a fuss, after Warwick threatened to arrest Kreacher. He figured they didn’t have anything on him, so they couldn’t hold him for long, and you would come flying in on your Firebolt to save the day.”

“Which I didn’t because no one fucking _told me!_ ”

“No, but I did,” Ron said smugly. “Minus the Firebolt, of course.” Then his smile slipped away. “Unfortunately, they roughed him up a bit before Nev and I got there.”

“Roughed him up _how?_ ” Harry demanded.

“Just some cuts and bruises. Hermione patched him up, and I reckon he’s good as new by now. But he was in a twist about something—kept insisting that he had to talk to you—so I promised I’d try to reach you.”

“And that’s why you sent the Patronus.”

“Right.”

“Without telling me that it was my _husband_ who wanted me!”

“If I’d told you, would you have left the Croatians in the lurch to come haring back here?”

“Probably.”

“And left Aysgarth’s body on a slab in Zagreb?”

“Probably.”

“And maybe caused an International Incident by snubbing the Croatian Magical Council?”

Harry flushed. “Probably.”

Ron’s mouth quirked in a wry smile. “That’s why I didn’t.”

“All right, fine,” Harry grumbled, “but you could’ve said a little more than _Floo if you get a chance._ ”

“No, I couldn’t. Trust me, Harry, everything’s under control. Ferret’s safe and waiting for you at the cottage, so I suggest you get your arse home and see what he wants.”

Harry pushed himself out of his chair. “Right.”

The second blow came when he opened the office door, fully intending to floo straight home to Draco, only to find a purple paper airplane hovering just outside it. At his appearance, the plane dropped a few inches to point directly at his nose. The message was clear: _Open me_ now!

Harry grabbed the memo, unfolded it, and for the hundredth time that morning groaned, “ _Fuck!_ ”

“What is it?” Ron asked.

“A summons from Kingsley. He wants me up there now.”

“Better go. Ferret’ll keep.”

Harry thought hard about that.

Could he slip away to the cottage before Kingsley knew he’d even seen the memo? Could he indulge himself in five minutes of Draco’s company before he faced yet another scene in the Minister’s office? Just this once, could he be a regular bloke, coming back from a trip abroad and eager to see his husband, instead of the sodding Savior of the Wizarding World?

No, he could not.

With a weary sigh, he stuffed the memo into his pocket and headed for the lifts.

Draco would keep. Kingsley would not.

The third blow fell when he found Clive Prewett sitting in Kingsley’s office, with Gawain Robards and Madame Pauncefoot, the Head of the Special Commission on War Crimes and Reparations.

Any one of the three would have been bad news. Taken all together, they made Harry’s stomach clench and his blood boil. Nothing good could come of this.

He checked on the threshold, unwilling even to enter the room where they sat, his stormy gaze resting longest on Prewett’s pale, willowy, languid form. He _loathed_ Clive Prewett. He blamed him for the shambles that was Christmas Eve at the Weasleys, and he knew with absolute certainty that he had leaked the news of Harry and Draco’s marriage to the Press.

Clive the Ponce was an insignificant twig on a decaying branch of the pureblood Prewett Family Tree, who had nothing to distinguish him but a name that had long since ceased to carry the prestige and glamour he so ardently craved. The Prewetts were blood traitors, members of the Sacred Twenty-eight who had opposed Voldemort in two wars. To any Prewett with brains and a conscience, this was a source of pride. To Clive the Ponce, it was a source of bitterness. He was eager enough to claim the heroes in his family who had fallen to Voldemort and to take advantage of the doors his name opened. But he deeply resented anyone who, like Draco, still wore the patina of ancient pureblood power and influence.

Meanwhile, Draco would gladly trade places with Clive Prewett, if it meant that he didnt have to drag the Malfoy name behind him like a rotting corpse.

Kingsley caught sight of him and rose to his feet. “Come in, Harry. Shut the door.”

Harry did not move. “What’s Prewett doing here?”

“Nice to see you, too, Potter,” Clive drawled, trying and failing to achieve a Malfoy Smirk.

“I asked Mr. Prewett to come,” Madam Pauncefoot said severely. “He is the undersecretary to the undersecretary to the Special Commission…”

“I don’t care if he’s the fucking Queen of the Fairies,” Harry snapped, cutting her off. “I have nothing to say to him, or to anyone so long as he’s in the room.”

“That’s enough, Potter,” Robards snapped. “Sit down.”

Harry crossed his arms stubbornly and planted his feet. “Sorry. Not going to happen. That poisonous, little prick has been selling stories about me to _The Daily Prophet_ …”

“ _Enough!_ ” Robards roared, in the same moment that Prewett spluttered, “I never!” and Pauncefoot declared, “You have no proof of that!”

“…and I’m not going to give him fresh meat to feed to Rita Skeeter.”

“Quiet! All of you!” Kingsley said, his deep voice filling the room and quelling the furor. When he had their attention, he tried again in his smooth, persuasive way. “Please, Harry, join us. I need you to hear what Madame Pauncefoot and Mr. Prewett have to say.”

Harry eyed him steadily for a moment, then shrugged. “You can fill me in later. Send me an Owl when you’re done here.”

He turned on his heel to leave.

“Harry.”

He halted in his tracks and glanced back over his shoulder.

“Mr. Prewett, if you would wait outside?”

Prewett goggled at the Minister, his pale eyes popping out of his head, then turned an affronted look on his boss. Madame Pauncefoot just motioned for him to go, her lips pressed tightly together in disapproval. His face was flushed an angry, blotchy red when he pushed past Harry and out of the office.

Harry shut the door very firmly on his heels, then threw up a Muting charm, just for good measure. He was feeling almost smug as he took the chair to Kingsley’s right, across the table from Robards and the Headhunter. But the fact of Madame Pauncefoot’s presence was ominous, to say the least, and his satisfaction was short-lived.

“Now that we have Potter’s gracious permission to continue, can we get on with this?” Robards groused. “I have other things to do this morning.”

“So do I,” Harry retorted, no vestige of respect for his superior in his tone.

“Both of you will kindly remember that I called this meeting and I am the Minister for Magic,” Kingsley swept the table with a reproving eye, “which means that I outrank you.”

Harry just crossed his arms again and favored Robards with a fulminating glare.

He was _so_ going to make The Pillock pay for yesterday!

“Now.” Kingsley picked up a folded newspaper that lay in front of him on the table and held it out to Harry. “We have a problem, my boy.”

Harry accepted the paper, spread it out flat, and looked down at the headline.

His heart lurched.

 **MALFOY AND POTTER, THE UNTOLD STORY** blazed up at him. **PART ONE: THE BOY WHO LOVED**.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, too stunned even for anger.

His eyes scanned the article, picking out words and phrases that fairly burned his eyeballs. _Secret romance. Private love nest. Trysts in the Prefect’s bathroom. Fenrir Greyback…_

Holy fuck! She even knew about Greyback! But how was that possible?

“I don’t understand.” He lifted dazed, stupefied eyes to Kingsley. “How could Rita Skeeter know all this? Who told her?”

Madame Pauncefoot cleared her throat. “I’m afraid you did, Potter.”

His gaze swung to her. “ _I_ did? Are you _mad?_ ”

“You and Minister Shacklebolt.”

Understanding struck him like a Killing Curse, bringing him half out of his chair in boiling fury. “You’re talking about our memories! The memories we entrusted to _you!_ What did you do with them, Madame Pauncefoot?! How did Skeeter get her hands on them?!”

“They were stolen.”

“Don’t you mean _sold?!_ ”

“Not by us,” she insisted. “Not by anyone bound by that contract.”

“ _I don’t fucking believe you!_ ”

“Watch your mouth, Potter,” Robards interjected.

“Stay the fuck out of this!” Harry shot back, teeth bared in a snarl of rage. Then he rounded on Pauncefoot again. “You broke our contract—a magical contract that gives me the power to destroy you and your precious Commission!”

“I did nothing of the kind,” Pauncefoot retorted, “and I can prove it. Show him the contract, Minister.”

Kingsley promptly handed him a large scroll. He knew what it was the instant his fingers touched the parchment, but he unrolled it anyway and made a show of examining the contents. Neat lines of script. Five signatures, with magical seals attached. All of it glowing with warm, clean, undamaged magic. The unbroken contract.

Letting the parchment curl back in on itself, Harry handed it to Kingsley without comment.

“We acted in good faith, Mr. Potter. You have no recourse against us.”

He clenched his teeth, fighting to hold his temper and speak politely when he longed to cut loose with another string of obscenities and a burst of destructive magic. “Kingsley and I entrusted you with deeply personal, highly destructive memories, and you lost them. Whether you meant to or not, you _lost them!_ That makes you responsible, no matter what the contract says.”

“I understand that, and I am sorry. I recognize how damaging this is for you…”

“Do you?” Harry felt his anger rise again and magic burn in his fingertips. He clenched his fists to contain it. “You realize that Skeeter is going to print all of it. Every ugly, filthy, hurtful secret. She won’t hesitate for a second.”

“I do.”

“And you gave them to her. You gave her the power to destroy the person I love best in this world. So you’ll understand why a simple ‘I’m sorry’ doesn’t cut it!”

“I share your frustration, Harry,” Kingsley interjected, “but I don’t think this is getting us anywhere. Madame Pauncefoot and her colleagues did not break the contract. They did not steal those memories or sell them to Rita Skeeter. That’s the salient point, here.”

“Fine,” Harry bit off furiously. “Then find out who did.”

“We’re looking into it,” Pauncefoot said heavily. “The problem we face is that no one outside the Commission even knew they existed until they went missing. And inside the Commission, it was only a select few who knew their contents. That makes the theft puzzling. The only people who knew what those phials contained are bound by the contract and therefore proven innocent.”

“Why were they sitting around at all?” Harry demanded. “You were supposed to destroy them.”

“We intended to, but destroying memories once they’re out in the world is no simple matter. It’s not as if we could simply flush them down the loo! I reached out to a friend in the DoM for advice but had not heard back when they went missing.”

“So at least one Unspeakable knew about them.”

“He knew I wanted to destroy some sensitive memories, nothing more.”

Harry pondered this for a moment, then asked, “What does Prewett have to do with this? You said he had information…”

“It was Mr. Prewett who discovered the theft.”

“ _Prewett?!_ ” He was half out of his seat again, crackling with indignation. “You told _Prewett_ about my memories?!”

“I did not. He noticed that the warded cabinet in my office had been disturbed and called it to my attention. I determined what had actually been taken. Then I asked him to pursue the matter… make inquiries…”

“Hmph!” Harry collapsed back in his chair again. “You realize that makes him your most likely suspect, don’t you?”

“Mr. Prewett is a trusted member of my staff who has never given me reason to question his loyalty or discretion,” Madame Pauncefoot declared icily.

“A trusted member of your staff who’s in and out of your office, poking his nose into warded cabinets, listening in on private conversations, storing up juicy gossip to sell to the highest bidder!”

“Harry,” Kingsley warned.

“All right, fine, I can’t prove he did it. But don’t say I didn’t warn you!”

“We’ll look into Mr. Prewett, along with everyone else who had access.”

Harry let his breath out in a huff, suddenly desperately tired and anxious to get away. “Do you need me for anything else, Minister?”

Kingsley gave him a sympathetic look. “No. I wanted you to hear about the theft from me, that's all.”

Harry held his gaze, reading the real sorrow in it, and finally nodded. “Thank you.” A weary pause, then, “I don’t suppose there’s any way we can stop her from printing the rest of it.”

“Not unless we catch her with the stolen memories in her possession… _before_ the stories go to press.”

Harry sighed and pushed himself to his feet. “What a fucking mess.” Then he turned for the door.

The fourth blow fell when he was nearly to the lifts and he heard Robards calling him.

“A word, Potter!”

He was at the very limit of his patience, down to his last bloody nerve, and in no state to deal with The Pillock. Revulsion and anger went through him in a visible wave at the sound of that voice. He halted in the middle of the hallway, back stiff and fists clenched, for the space of a breath. Then he spun on his heel to face the other man.

Robards looked no happier than Harry felt to be having this conversation.

“You seemed certain that the worst was yet to come with Skeeter’s _exclusive_ ,” he said dryly. “What else has she got on you?”

“You’ll have to read about it in the _Prophet_ ,” Harry said through clenched teeth.

“This isn’t just about you, Potter! It blows back on all of us. The department. Your colleagues. Me. I need to know just how bad it’s going to get!”

“I don’t care how bad it gets or how much damage it does to the department, there is no sodding way I’m going to tell you what’s in those memories!”

“Right.” Robards crossed his arms and glared at his unrepentant subordinate. “I gather you retrieved Aysgarth’s body?”

Harry nodded brusquely. “He’s in the Forensics lab.”

“Good. Then finish your report and hand everything over to Weasley. You’re off the case.”

Harry froze, rooted to the spot, too shocked and outraged even to protest.

“I’m done with your insubordination and insolence. I’m done trying to justify keeping you on this case when your judgement is so obviously compromised. You’re determined to protect Malfoy at the expense of everything and everyone else? Fine. Have at it. But you won’t cripple my investigation while you’re doing it. And the next time you or your partner decide to interfere with a sanctioned interrogation, you’ll be out of a job!”

With that, he marched away, leaving Harry staring blankly at the spot he had so recently occupied.

It took Harry nearly a minute to collect himself enough to make his way down to the second level and Auror Headquarters. He was still a bit spell-shocked, his brain not fully functional, when he reached the familiar corridor. It was unusually crowded for this time of day, Aurors collected outside Robards’ door and lurking around the tea trolley, all with their heads together. They broke off at the sight of Harry. Some smirked. Others flushed and looked away. Nearly all of them held copies of the _Prophet._

Harry ignored them, which was remarkably easy when his thoughts were still limping around in pointless circles, and made for his own office. He nearly collided with Ron just coming out of it, a pile of file folders in his arms. One look at Harry’s face brought him to an abrupt halt in the open doorway.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m off the case,” Harry said numbly, not bothering to lower his voice.

Ron’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. “What?”

“I’m off the case. Robards reassigned me.”

“But… he can’t do that, mate! We need you!”

“Tell The Pillock.” Then, his brain suddenly slipping back into gear, he dropped his voice and whispered urgently, “Make a copy of the file—everything we’ve got—and send it to the cottage. Don’t let anyone see you.”

“Right. Er… behind you, mate.”

That was when the fifth blow fell. So hard upon the heels of the last that Harry had no chance to think. No chance to regroup. And no strength left to absorb it.

At Ron’s warning, he turned to find Warwick and MacMillan bearing down on him, several other Aurors trailing at their heels. Warwick was grinning. MacMillan looked as if he’d swallowed a dungbomb. Harry felt his heart drop into his boots.

He didn’t want to do this now.

“Did I hear right, Potter? You’re off the case?” Warwick chortled. “About time Robards got wise to you and your little piece of pureblood arse! Now maybe we can get some real work done!”

“Shut your gob!” Ron snapped.

Warwick just laughed, making Ron bristle and start forward, fists clenched. Harry stopped him with an arm across his path, then he crowded up close to Warwick, making the most of his height advantage and the power crackling visibly around him.

“What do you want, Warwick?”

“From you?” A sneer twisted his thick lips. “Not a fucking thing. From your _husband_ , now, that’s another story. We were just starting to have some fun when Weasel stuck his wand in…”

“Fun? That’s what you call beating up a witness?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he retorted, a mocking glint in his eye. “I never laid a finger on him.” His laughter abruptly died and his eyes narrowed dangerously. “But make no mistake, Potter. The next time I get my hands on that cunt, I won’t be so gentle.”

Cold fury swept through Harry, making the power radiating from him spark blue. “If you ever touch Draco again, I’ll kill you.”

There was no mistaking the deadly sincerity in his voice or the terrifying magic behind it, and even the swaggering Warwick was momentarily cowed. Then he pulled himself together and pasted on a grin—only slightly frayed around the edges.

“Isn’t that sweet. I wonder if you’ll be so anxious to defend him when he’s on trial for murder? Which means more to you, Potter? Malfoy’s arse or your own?”

Harry bared his teeth in a growl and took a step closer. Warwick held his ground, but the bystanders were getting nervous.

“Leave off, Ed,” someone called.

Warwick laughed. “I’m going to enjoy throwing that pretty thing in Azkaban. It’ll make my year. Just think of all those Death Eaters, aching to get their hands on Lucius Malfoy’s baby boy!”

“Don’t,” MacMillan cautioned, while Ron growled, “Warwick, you bloody bastard!”

Harry just stood there, rigid with fury, fighting to rein in his temper and his magic.

“At least he won’t be cold at night! I’m sure they’d rather fuck him than kill him—most of them, anyway—and if he’s really lucky, the werewolf’ll take a shine to him…”

Harry moved in a blur, his wand materializing in his hand, his other fist closing on Warwick’s robes, even as magic exploded out of him in a white-hot wave.

“ _Harry!_ ” someone screamed.

Flames licked up the walls and across the carpet. Red-robed figures stumbled back, cursing. More people came running, wands drawn.

Harry ignored it all.

Slamming Warwick up against the wall, he jammed the tip of his wand into the other man’s throat until he grunted with the pain of it.

“ _One more word_ ,” he hissed. “Just _one more word_ …”

“And what?” Warwick croaked.

“I’ll choke you with it!”

“Potter!” a voice cracked.

Harry bared his teeth and dug his wand in a little deeper. “You like playing rough, so play with me! Go on, Warwick, make your move! I fucking _dare_ you!”

“ _Potter!_ ”

A Stinging hex struck him in the back, bringing his head around with a snap to find a ring of startled faces turned on him. Robards stood just inside the ring, wand raised, features hard with fury.

“Lower your wand!”

After a moment’s hesitation, Harry lowered his wand.

“Step away!”

He stepped away, giving Warwick room to slide out of his grip and sidle over to Robards.

“You drew your wand on a fellow Auror in the halls of the Ministry. You threatened his life.” Robards pinned him with a furious gaze, waiting for a response that didn’t come, then barked, “You’re suspended ’til further notice. Get out of here. I don’t want to see your face again until I send for you. And if I catch you anywhere near one of our cases, I’ll arrest you! Am I clear?!”

Harry didn’t answer. He couldn’t. If he opened his lips, he’d curse Robards and Warwick into the Janus Thickey Ward and himself into a cell in Azkaban. That might be the perfect end to a perfectly hideous day, but it wasn’t one he wanted to contemplate. So he bit his tongue ’til it bled and turned to leave, letting the babble of voices from behind wash over him.

“Oh, Harry,” he heard Cho Chang wail, as he stalked way.

Then MacMillan muttered, “Talk to him, Weasley. Make him see reason.”

“Harry, mate,” Ron began, but Harry silenced him with sidelong glance and a shake of his head.

It was Warwick’s voice that followed him the farthest and stayed with him the longest, shouting at his retreating back, “We’re coming for him, Potter! You can’t hide him forever! We’re coming!”

* * *

The final and most crippling blow came from the last direction Harry expected.

He apparated to the cottage, already shouting his husband’s name as his feet landed on the hearthrug. “Draco?! Where are you?!”

He started for the door, bellowing, “ _Draco!_ ”

Unshod feet sounded on the stairs, warning him of Draco’s arrival, then the other man was through the door and walking straight into his arms without breaking stride. Harry caught his slighter body close, holding it tightly enough to squeeze the air from his lungs, while Draco wrapped both arms around Harry’s waist and buried his face in the curve of his neck.

“You’re okay.”

“Of course I am,” Draco replied, his words muffled in Harry’s neck.

“Ron told me…”

A grunt of annoyance cut him off. “Weasel should have kept his mouth shut. And you should have come to _me_ before you went to _him_.”

“Lugging Aysgarth’s corpse along with me?” Harry countered. “Seriously?”

Draco shuddered slightly.

Harry stroked his back, dropped a kiss on the top of his head, and said, “Let me see your face.”

“It’s only some bruises.”

“Let me see.”

Draco hesitated for another moment, still holding tightly to Harry, then finally lifted his head. Wary grey eyes met frowning green ones. Harry caught his head, cradling his bruised face gently between his palms and brushing the thick, fading, silver scar that split his lip with a thumb.

The damage was healing quickly, the bruises yellowing, the swelling nearly gone. But Harry could clearly see the evidence of a thorough, brutal beating in his husband’s face. Anger coiled, hot and heavy and dangerous, in his guts.

“Bloody hell,” he whispered.

“It’s nothing. I’ve had worse from playful customers.”

“That doesn’t make it okay.”

He gathered Draco close again, pressing his head into his shoulder, and Draco settled willingly against him. They just stood there for a long minute, soaking up each other’s warmth. Then Draco spoke.

“Warwick showed me pictures of the victims.”

Foreboding crawled over Harry’s scalp. “Yeah?”

“I knew them, Harry. All of them.”

A moment of uneasy silence, then, “What do you mean, _knew_ them?”

Draco lifted his head. Caught Harry’s eye. Delivered the shattering blow without flinching.

“I fucked them.” He waited for some response, but Harry was too stunned even to breathe, much less to think or string words together. Draco looked at him with those Arctic eyes for another handful of seconds, then said, “I fucked every one of them, Harry. Aysgarth was my first. The man at the party.”

“The rapist,” Harry whispered soundlessly.

Draco nodded. “Sokolov was a friend of Phineas’ who liked to take me out in the garden and bend me over a bench. There was one—a Ministry official—who bought me at the club. They were all customers, Harry. They all fucked me. And now they’ve all been punished.”

Punished. That was the word.

Harry had instinctively known it, reading the descriptions of the attacks, but the word had escaped him until he heard Draco say it.

Punished.

The Memory Thief was punishing the men who had used Draco. Which meant…

“You’re the link.”

“I’m the link. And Warwick knows it, or he suspects, anyway. He found out about Sokolov from the servants at the Manor and he tried to get me to admit that I knew the others.”

“That’s why he beat you.”

“Yes. To get a confession out of me.”

“But you didn’t…”

“I didn’t give him anything.”

“Oh, fuck,” Harry gasped, relief and horror and helplessness rising in a tide to choke him. He caught Draco’s head between his hands and pressed their foreheads together, muttering, “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” like an incantation.

It was true, what he’d always suspected. Draco was more than involved in the case, he was at the heart of it. The link. The reason for everything that had happened. And Harry couldn’t tell anyone without exposing his husband to the full wrath of the wizarding world. But it would come out… somehow… when Warwick got hold of him again… when they caught the Memory Thief… And Harry couldn’t protect him. Not now that he was off the case, suspended, a suspect himself.

His fucking temper! He had ruined everything!

“Who have you told?” he asked. “Ron? Hermione?”

“No one. No one knows but us.”

Harry groaned and pulled Draco close again.

Draco was shaking—they both were—and his fingers knotted desperately in the back of Harry’s robes. “What are we going to do?”

Harry gave a sob of humorless laughter. “I have no fucking idea!”

**_To be continued…_ **


	7. Interlude: A Drink with Friends and Other Adventures (Revised)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After everything our boys (and their braindead author) have been through, I thought they needed a bit of a break. So here's an interlude that's short on plot and long on fun. And you know what that means... Yup. Smut. Not the whole chapter, mind you (they CAN have other kinds of fun), but a fair chunk of it, and it's fairly graphic for me. I got just a _teensy_ bit carried away!
> 
> You'll notice that there are no newspaper excerpts at the beginning of this chapter. That's because the boys are largely ignoring the outside world, so we'll ignore it with them and leave Rita Skeeter's muck-raking for the next one (which means you'll probably get a double dose... Oh, joy!). 
> 
> Thank you, _thank you, THANK YOU_ to my wonderful reviewers for all your kind words and encouragement!! You kept me going when I was ready to give up, and I can't tell you how grateful I am! I truly couldn't have written this without you.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> **This chapter has been revised**  
>  I've made changes to the sex scene at the end. They're not extensive, but I think they improve the overall flow of the chapter. 
> 
> If you'd like to read the original version, you will find just the final scene in the Appendix to the _In the Mirror_ series.

****Once again, snow had fallen in the night, cloaking the landscape in a blanket of pristine white. It looked soft and lovely from the perspective of the sitting room windows, with a fire warming the room and magic sealing the casements against frigid drafts. Almost tempting. Not at all like the icy, clinging, sodden mess that it really was.

Draco knew better than to trust his eyes. He knew perfectly well just how cold and unwelcoming that fluffy blanket of white really was and felt no desire to be out in it. But apparently, he was in the minority. In the fifteen minutes he’d been standing at the window, he’d seen a near-constant trickle of traffic up and down the lane—half the population of Icklesford out for a brisk morning stroll through the frozen Cotswolds landscape.

Right now, he could see two figures approaching from the village, hiking along the snow-clogged lane with walking sticks and knapsacks. Another figure—a woman in a bright red knit hat and mittens—was meandering past their front gate in a singularly aimless way. Almost as if she were _Confunded_.

Mental, the lot of them.

Arms slipped around Draco from behind and lips pressed to his temple. He instinctively leaned back against the comfortable solidity of Harry’s body, smiling, and laid his hands over the ones holding him so protectively.

“Hey.” Harry kissed him again, finding his cheekbone this time. “What’re you looking at?”

Draco nodded toward the window and the view of the countryside. “All those people. It’s like Diagon Alley at Christmas out there. What do you suppose they’re doing?”

Harry watched the woman in the hat for a moment. She had fallen in a snowdrift and was floundering around helplessly, unable to clamber out of it.

“Looking for us.”

Draco tilted his head back to look at him, a question in his eyes.

Harry gave him a reassuring squeeze. “Don’t worry. I’ve got the cottage wrapped in so many Concealment and Protection spells that Voldemort himself couldn’t find it.”

“Is that why that poor woman looks so befuddled?”

He chuckled unrepentantly. “Yeah. She got too close to a Repelling charm.”

“As long as she doesn’t forget to climb out of that snowdrift.”

“It would serve her right, snooping into other people’s business. Bloody journo.”

“You think she’s a reporter?”

“Reporter. Photographer. Celebrity hound. General irritant. Does it matter? I hope she gets frostbite.”

Draco regarded him steadily for a moment, then turned back to the window.

The woman in the red hat had extricated herself from the drift and was stumbling off toward the village, passing the hikers without seeing them. The hikers hadn’t quite reached their property boundary and so were not yet affected by the charms. They looked alert and inquisitive.

“Why are there so many of them?” he asked, eyeing the invaders. “What do they want?”

“What they always want. A piece of Harry Potter.”

“They’re never going to leave you alone, now that they know about your marriage.”

“They weren’t going to leave me alone, anyway. And our marriage is only the start of it.”

The somber note in his voice sent a prickle of alarm up Draco’s spine. He abandoned his study of the lane and turned around to face Harry.

“What do you mean? What else has happened?”

“It’s… well… I meant to tell you all about it yesterday, but we got sidetracked…”

“So tell me now.”

“There’s a lot. Maybe we should eat breakfast, first.”

“Maybe you should stop stalling and tell me what the fuck is going on.”

“Okay.”

Harry stroked his hands down Draco’s arms, reaching and clasping his hands, frowning down at them in thought. Then he abruptly turned and started toward the settee, pulling Draco after him.

“Come sit down.”

“Fine. I’ll sit down,” Draco grumbled, as he plopped down on the brocade cushions, “but if you say we need a cup of tea, I’ll hit you with a Bat-Bogey hex.”

“No tea. No stalling.” Harry kept hold of Draco’s hands and twisted to sit sideways, one leg tucked up under him, so he could look directly at the other man. “I really did mean to tell you this as soon as I got home. I never meant to keep it from you.”

“Understood. Now, spit it out.”

“Okay.” Harry sucked in a deep breath, held it for a moment, then said in a rush, “I gave memories of our time together at Hogwarts to the Wizengamot!”

Draco blinked at him, startled into stupidity. “You… you did what?”

“I gave memories to the Headhunters—that’s the special commission that prosecutes war criminals—to prove that you never voluntarily served Voldemort. Kingsley and I both did. When I found you at the club and I knew for sure you were alive, I pressured Kingsley into helping me get the charges against you dismissed so you could come out of hiding, but the only proof we had was our memories of what happened at Hogwarts, so we… we handed them over…”

His frantic rush of words petered out in the face of Draco’s numb silence. The two men just stared at each other for a moment, then Harry asked, plaintively, “Are you angry?”

“I don’t know.” Draco swallowed the lump forming in his throat. “When did you do this?”

“Right after I found you. When the news that you were still alive first hit the papers.”

“So… why tell me now?”

Harry took another deep breath, bracing himself, then blurted out, “Because the memories were stolen and sold to Rita Skeeter!”

Draco felt the blood drain from his head so fast that he almost blacked out. He swayed sickeningly. Bile rose in his throat, burning it, followed by a small, pained sound that was almost a whimper.

“Draco?”

He couldn’t see Harry’s face through the blotches that obscured his vision, but he could hear the concern in his voice. He opened his mouth to answer, but only that pathetic sound came out of it. Strong hands caught hold of him, pulled him in against the warmth of another body, then cradled him protectively.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Harry murmured into his hair. “I did everything in my power to prevent this from happening. I had them sign a Magical contract that gave me the power to destroy their Commission, to throw them all in prison, if they leaked a word of what they knew. I made them agree to destroy the memories after they closed the case. I put so much power into that contract that they were terrified to sign it! I saw it in their faces! But it wasn’t enough.”

“How?” Draco managed to choke out.

“They were stolen by someone not bound by the contract. Now Skeeter’s got them, and she’s publishing a series of tell-all articles about us. The first one about our… our _scandalous schoolboy romance_ was published yesterday.”

“Fuck!” Draco gasped.

“It was hideous—just what you’d expect from that cockroach—but nothing compared to what’s coming. The next one’s about the Unbreakable Vow.”

“Fuck. _Fuck_.” He screwed his eyes shut against scalding tears and burrowed his face into Harry’s chest to hide them.

“The Headhunters are investigating the theft, and I know Kingsley will do what he can to stop Skeeter. She has his memories, too, after all. But I’m not counting on him getting to her before the other stories are published.”

“She… knows about my father.”

“Yes.”

“And Greyback?”

“Yes. I tried to keep the memories separate, to only give them what they really needed, but all of it was jumbled together in my mind. You remember that you told me about the Vow while we were in the Prefect’s bathroom? Well, they got most of that—why we were there, what we did before and after—I couldn’t focus tightly enough to hide it. Then your father and Greyback were all tied up with the Vow. And we had to explain how Dumbledore found out and how you tried to protect him by delaying Voldemort’s plans. So, you see, it was…”

“Complicated,” Draco finished for him in a ghostly whisper.

Harry just stroked the long, silver-gilt strands back from his face and began to rock soothingly.

“And all these people looking for us… they’ve read the stories.”

“Probably. But they won’t find us, Dragon. Between Hermione’s spells—which were strong enough to hide us from Voldemort’s entire fucking army—and my wards, no one is getting into this cottage. Kreacher will stay at Grimmauld Place to intercept any Owls or floo-calls meant for the cottage, and he’ll make it look like we’re living in the house, so the Aurors will assume we’re hiding there and not come digging around in Gloucestershire…”

“Aurors?” Draco tilted his head back to get a glimpse of Harry’s taut, tormented face. “Why would Aurors come looking for us?”

“Because Warwick is still determined to pin the Memory Thief crimes on you, and Robards is backing him. And because…”

This time, Draco pushed all the way out of Harry’s arms to turn an accusing gaze on him. “Because?”

“I… er… got myself suspended.”

“You did _what?!_ ”

“I got myself suspended for threatening Warwick’s life in the middle of Auror HQ. In front of Robards. And most of the department.” He rubbed the back of his neck, awkwardly. “Oh, and I kind of lit the place on fire with my magic, while I was at it.”

He stopped, flushing in a way that would have been adorable under less trying circumstances, and offered Draco a shamefaced smile.

“Sorry.”

Draco just stared at his husband in disbelief.

“I’m sorry I did such a stupid thing when you’re depending on me to keep you out of trouble. I know I didn’t solve anything by going off on Warwick—in fact, I made everything a lot worse—but he pushed me into it, and I… well, I have to say that it felt bloody brilliant!”

“So, you’re off the case,” Draco finally ventured, “and you’re under suspicion yourself, and you’re trapped here with me while half of Wizarding Britain combs the countryside for us and Robards thinks you’re holed up in London.”

“That’s about right.”

“And Rita Skeeter is writing a series of tell-all stories, exposing my life as an underaged prostitute for Voldemort.”

Harry’s flush darkened painfully. “Right again.”

“And you think saying ‘I’m sorry’ a few dozen times is going to fix this?”

“No.” Harry reached for him, petting his hair, gazing longingly at him. “But I have to say it because I _am._ I’m _so sorry_.”

Draco dropped his gaze. Closed his eyes. Let the touch of Harry’s hand on his hair comfort him. He was aching to crawl back into the other man’s arms, onto his lap, into his warmth, but fear held him immobile.

“Is there anything else you need to tell me?” he finally whispered.

“I think that’s enough for one morning.”

“I mean it.” He lifted his eyes to meet Harry’s troubled ones. “Are you holding anything back?”

“No.” He waited, hand still resting on Draco’s hair, then murmured, “What about you, Dragon? What’re you holding back?”

Draco shook his head. Dropped his gaze.

“Do you need to swear at me? Throw some curses? Threaten divorce? Just tell me and get it over with.”

He shook his head again.

“You’re not angry?”

“I’m angry,” Draco whispered, “but not at you.”

Harry snorted in disbelief, and Draco shot him a wistful look.

“You forgave me for fucking half the wizards in Britain. I think I can forgive you for doing one reckless thing in your quest to save me from my own appalling choices.”

Harry’s breath caught. His hand faltered. “You mean it?” His voice shook very slightly. “You forgive me?”

Draco’s answer was to finally give into his own longing and crawl into Harry’s lap. He curled up against the other man’s chest, shuddering in relief when Harry’s arms closed around him, and shut his eyes. Harry gave a watery laugh, dropped a kiss on his head, and began to rock gently.

They just sat there for a long minute, wrapped around each other, soaking up the comfort and strength they drew from one another.

Then Harry asked softly, “Ready for breakfast?”

Draco grunted an almost-laugh. “More cold casserole? Or will you fetch Kreacher back from Grimmauld Place to cook for us?”

“I can make breakfast!” Harry sounded genuinely affronted by his doubt. “Eggs and bacon are my speciality!”

“Well, that’s one more meal than I can make, so I suppose I shouldn’t criticize.”

“Your talents lie elsewhere.”

Draco shot him a threatening look from beneath his lashes. “Is that a dig at how I lived my life before you _rescued_ me?”

“No.” The warm, loving arms tightened around him in silent apology. “It’s an observation. No one reads Shakespeare like you do.”

* * *

Harry was as good as his word. His eggs and bacon were delicious. Draco was ravenous and would probably have eaten a plate full of quill trimmings without complaint, but the breakfast Harry set in front of him was every bit as good as anything Kreacher could make.

Draco had wiped his plate clean and was inhaling a slice of toast slathered in marmalade, when he looked up to find Harry’s smiling eyes on him. He paused in mid-chew to lift a querying eyebrow at his husband.

“I told you we should have eaten before we talked.”

Draco—ever the gentleman—paused to swallow his mouthful of food before answering. “Shut it and pour me another cup of tea.”

“Yes, Master Draco,” Harry replied in a fair imitation of Kreacher’s subservient croak.

Draco threw the rest of his toast at him.

Still laughing, Harry brought the teapot to the table and filled Draco’s cup. Then he resumed his own seat and dug into his second helping of scrambled eggs.

“What do you want to do today?” he asked, mouth full in defiance of his well-bred husband’s example.

“That depends.” Draco took a delicate sip of tea, set his cup down, and added, “When is Weasel coming by with the case files?”

Harry goggled at him for a moment, then broke out in a grin. “How’d you know?”

“I’m not a complete idiot.”

And only a complete idiot would believe that Harry Potter would walk away from a case, just because the pillock in the Head Auror’s chair told him to. Especially when that case threatened the health and safety of his husband.

“Well, he won’t come ’til I floo-call, so don’t worry about him. After what we’ve been through recently, and me being gone to fucking _Croatia_ when I should have been here with you, I thought we deserved a day together just, you know, doing what we like.”

“What we like.” Draco smirked knowingly at him. “You mean, shagging on every flat surface in the house.”

That blazing, beautiful grin that never failed to turn Draco’s bones to water lit Harry’s face. “For starters, yeah.”

“And you won’t be thinking about the case the whole time?”

“When I have you naked underneath me? Are you mad?”

Draco returned his smile, unable to help himself, but it didn’t last.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want Harry to shag him on every surface in the house. And it certainly wasn’t that he didn’t want Harry’s undivided attention for a day. It was that he could feel the walls pressing in on him. The wards. The spells. The eyes of wizarding Britain. Everywhere, all around, pressing in until he couldn’t breathe properly.

Apparently, on top of everything else, he was claustrophobic.

“What’s wrong, Dragon? What did I say?”

“Nothing.” Draco tried to shake off his discomfort and produce a smile but wasn’t very successful at it. “I’m just wondering how many days like this we have to fill.”

“Days to ourselves?” Harry asked, a suggestive twinkle in his eyes.

“Days shut up like prisoners in this cottage.”

His smile faded. “I thought you liked it here.”

“I do. But there’s something about knowing that I can’t leave…”

“Oh.” Harry rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully. “I see.”

“I feel like my mother—exiled to a little cottage in the middle of nowhere, her every move watched, no one but a house-elf for company.”

“Am I no better company than a house-elf?”

“You know what I mean, Harry.”

“Yeah, I do.” He rubbed his neck again, then added, “But I don’t see why we can’t go out and enjoy ourselves, as long as we’re careful.”

*** *** ***

They started by shagging on the kitchen table—because Draco couldn’t resist Harry’s smile and it was too brilliant an opportunity to pass up.

Then they apparated to Muggle London, to Carnaby Street, so Draco could show Harry just how much fun a man could have shopping for clothes if he wasn’t simply intent on getting in and out of the shop as quickly as humanly possible. Besides, he had been wearing the same few articles of clothing for weeks now and needed to expand his wardrobe. Harry liked the blue-haired sales clerk called Rae, and he absolutely _loved_ the embroidered jeans that she pressed on Draco, assuring him that they were just his style.

She was right.

They fit snuggly—after a few tailoring charms performed in the privacy of the changing room—with swirls of color climbing the legs, curling across the bum, accentuating his lean frame and taut curves. Harry took one look and flatly insisted that he buy them, then proceeded to ransack the store for shirts, jumpers, jackets and even a few pieces of jewelry that complemented them. Draco was not at all sure about the jewelry, having only ever worn it in the tawdry surroundings of a brothel, but he gave in when Harry slipped a bracelet over his hand and proceeded to kiss his way from his wrist up his arm. After that, he couldn’t say no.

Rae thought they were too sweet for words and took a picture of them with a Muggle device she carried in her pocket. It was a good picture, even if it didn’t move. Harry was wearing his devastating smile and looked sublimely happy, while Draco thought he could almost see the echo of the boy he’d once been in the flushed cheeks and satisfied smirk he wore.

They ate lunch at the Shakespeare’s Head pub and Harry loved that almost as much as the jeans. He found a copy of _Richard III_ on a little bookcase beside the door and the two men read it together while they ate. Draco was Richard, of course, and chewed the scenery with appropriate relish.

Back at the cottage, Draco made the mistake—or strategic choice—of modeling his new jeans for his husband. This resulted in a shag bent over the foot of the bed, then another on the rug in front of the bedroom fire and yet another in the bath. Harry would gladly have found still more places around the cottage to express his delight in Draco’s wardrobe, if the man in question had not smacked away his groping hand and told him in stern accents to behave himself.

“You said we’d be there at four. We barely have time to get dressed.”

“It’ll only take a minute.”

“And then I’ll need another bath! Honestly, Potter, have you no self-control?”

“None,” Harry proclaimed smugly, his arm snaking around Draco’s waist and his free hand sliding down his naked flank.

“All right, fine. But you have to explain why we’re late.”

“Not a problem.”

They weren’t very late, and Draco didn’t really have any complaints. They apparated under cover of Harry’s invisibility cloak, arriving in the Hogsmeade High Street as dusk was closing in. The cloak was hardly long enough to cover two grown men, and their feet left clear marks in the deep snow, but the street was nearly deserted and no one seemed to notice the disembodied feet sidling up to the door of the Three Broomsticks. The wooden door opened and closed, apparently under its own power, and two pairs of wet footprints formed on the flagstones of the entryway.

From the safety of the cloak, Draco looked around him, taking in the familiar sight of the Three Broomsticks on a Winter’s afternoon. It hadn’t changed a bit in the years of his exile. The roaring fire, the crowded tables, the tankards full of ale and butterbeer floating behind Madam Rosmerta as she wended her way over to a group of thirsty customers, exchanging jokes and smiles along the way—they were all exactly as he remembered.

Warmth collected in his chest. Happiness. Gratitude. He was back in a world he knew, a world he loved, that he had thought was lost to him forever.

Then he caught a glimpse of the nearest faces—witches and wizards chatting in blithe ignorance of the ghost in their midst—and the warmth in him chilled. Congealed. Turned to shame and something akin to panic.

This was a mistake. He didn’t belong here. None of these people wanted him here, and he couldn’t bear for Harry to see it… the contempt, the suspicion, the _hate_ in their eyes when they looked at him…

He abruptly turned for the door, reaching to open it and duck back out into the gathering night. But even as he moved, Harry slipped out from under the cloak and lifted his hand in a signal. Draco made a belated snatch for him, hissing a warning that was drowned out by Harry’s own call.

“Hagrid!”

Every head turned in their direction, like flowers seeking the sun. Every face blossomed with a smile. They knew him instantly—Harry Potter. Their Savior.

At the back of the room, an enormous figure lumbered to its feet, nearly knocking over a table in its eagerness.

“Harry!” Hagrid bellowed, easily overpowering all the other voices in the room. “Yeh made it!”

Then he was plowing through the tables toward them, beaming from ear to ear, arms outstretched to scoop Harry up in a bone-breaking hug. Harry managed to keep hold of Draco’s hand through the cloak, even when lost in Hagrid’s massive arms and hairy coat. He clung to the half-giant, laughing, then staggered when Hagrid gave him a friendly buffet on the shoulder.

Draco just goggled at them from beneath the cloak.

_Fuck_. He’d forgotten how big Hagrid was! And how _loud!_

“Good ter see yeh, Harry!”

“You, too,” Harry said, grinning so hard that his face nearly split.

“Come have a drink, then. I saved us a table.” He looked around in confusion, the smile dropping from his whiskery face, and added, “I thought yeh was bringin’…”

“I did. Come on.”

Harry grabbed Draco with one hand, Hagrid’s sleeve with the other, and piloted them both toward the corner of the room where they would have a modicum of privacy. Only when they stood in the dim shadows, with Hagrid’s bulk between them and the rest of the taproom, did Harry finally tug the cloak off of Draco’s head.

“Blimey,” Hagrid rumbled softly. “Malfoy.”

Draco looked up at the old friend he had never thought to see again, acutely aware of his mussed hair and reddened cheeks, and was startled to see tears shining in the half-giant’s eyes. He gulped. Ventured a smile.

“Hello, Hagrid.”

Suddenly, to his utter amazement, Draco found himself engulfed in Hagrid’s arms, swept off his feet, crushed into that hideous coat, smothered in that wild beard, while Hagrid shook with something that could only be described as sobs.

“I thought yeh were gone! All these years, I thought yeh were gone! But look at yeh!” He set Draco back on his feet and clasped his shoulders in hands heavy enough to crush him. “Jus’ look at yeh. Draco Malfoy, standin’ righ’ here in front of me. If tha’ don’ beat all!”

Draco was dimly aware that every person in the room was staring at them, and that few of the gazes fixed on them were friendly. But somehow, in that moment, it didn’t matter. Hagrid was glad to see him. Hagrid was wiping his eyes on his sleeve, pulling out a tablecloth-sized handkerchief to blow his nose, and grinning down at Draco with evident delight.

Hagrid was glad to see him.

_Hagrid._

Draco let a real smile light his face. “How have you been, Hagrid?”

“Ah, yeh know…” He swept one arm wide in a gesture that encompassed the pub, the village, and the castle beyond. “This is home. ’S long’s I’m here, I’m happy. Not the same withou’ Dumbledore, though, is it?”

Draco just shook his head at that.

“Sit down, you two. What’ll yeh have ter drink?”

“Just butterbeer, for me,” Harry said as he slid onto a bench and budged up to make room for Draco.

“The same, please,” Draco murmured, taking his place at Harry’s side.

Hagrid plowed off through the room to get their drinks, leaving Harry and Draco alone at the table. Draco shot a nervous glance around at the clumped, pinched, glowering faces, wishing Hagrid had stayed. He felt distinctly vulnerable without the groundskeeper’s formidable presence, but Harry seemed relaxed, even reckless. He looped an arm around Draco’s waist and kissed him with no apparent thought to spare for all those watching eyes and giving no sign that he heard the wave of muttered discontent that rippled through the crowd.

Hagrid returned quickly with two tankards of butterbeer and a refill of his own Firewhiskey. Plunking the drinks down on the table, he took his seat, filling nearly the entire bench opposite the two men, and fired a beaming smile at them.

“Blimey, it’s good ter see yeh! So, tell us how yeh’ve been, Malfoy! What yeh’ve been up ter since yeh disappeared! I though’ Harry was goin’ barmy lookin’ for yeh… nearly drove the rest of us barmy, too…”

To Draco’s relief, two more of their party chose that moment to arrive, cutting off Hagrid’s uncomfortable questions and sparing Draco the trouble of answering them. Headmistress McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey blew in from the street, bringing a gust of fresh snow with them, and were met with a chorus of greetings from every corner of the taproom. Hagrid heaved himself to his feet, Harry and Draco following, and waved an arm to get the ladies’ attention.

“Professor! Madam Pomfrey! Over here!”

Once again, the entire room turned to stare. Draco wished he could duck back under the invisibility cloak until they got bored and went back to their drinks, but all he could reasonably do was stand there, back straight and head up, under the combined weight of all those eyes.

McGonagall and Pomfrey, having shed their outermost layers, threaded a path through the tables to join them. Both women had aged somewhat since last Draco had seen them, but both also seemed more relaxed. Unguarded. Cheerful. Maybe it was having survived yet another war that had mellowed them. Or maybe it was simply being away from their school and their students for a few hours.

“Well, Mr. Potter,” McGonagall said in her familiar Scottish burr, “Mr. Malfoy, it’s past time you two graced us with your presence.”

Harry laughed and planted an affectionate kiss on her cheek. “Actually, we’re both Mr. Potter now.”

McGonagall shook her head, lips pursed. “I’m aware of that, but I’m afraid I’ll never get used to it. I can’t call you both Potter.”

“You managed it with seven Weasleys,” Harry reminded her.

“Yes, but Weasleys are interchangeable.” She paused and cleared her throat. “Don’t tell Ronald I said that.”

Draco watched all this, feeling incredibly awkward and out of place, all his social graces deserting him at the worst possible moment. When McGonagall’s gimlet eye swept him from head to toe, he felt as if she were tallying all his faults—real and imagined—for future reference. Or she simply didn’t approve of the embroidered jeans. He flushed slightly and wiped his palm on his leg before holding out his hand to her.

“Headmistress,” he murmured politely.

She smiled, took his hand and squeezed it. Then she threw him totally off balance by asking, “May I still call you Malfoy?”

His flush deepened. “I’d prefer Draco, if you don’t mind.”

“I think I can manage that. It’s a pleasure to see you looking so exceedingly alive, Draco.”

“I _told_ you,” Harry cut in, rolling his eyes.

“Yes, Mr. Potter, you told us, and we should have known better than to doubt you. But if you’ll excuse me, I was speaking to Mr. Malf— er, Draco, not to you.”

Everyone laughed. Madam Pomfrey embraced first Harry, then Draco, planting kisses on their cheeks and smiling upon them with a fondness that made Draco’s throat tighten. Then they were crowding onto the benches, ordering drinks from Madam Rosmerta, chattering like the old friends they were. Or most of them were.

Draco had the distinct feeling that he was hallucinating, and it only got worse when first Flitwick, then Slughorn joined them, and everyone greeted him as if he had every right to be there. They patted his shoulder, expressed their delight that he wasn’t dead, congratulated him on his marriage, and generally made him feel welcome in a way he never remembered feeling before.

He sat in bemused silence, his innocuous butterbeer exchanged for a glass of oak-matured mead at Slughorn’s urging, while the conversation flew around him. They talked about Hogwarts, about Ministry affairs, about the lingering effects of the war on wizarding society and their frustrations in trying to heal their beloved school of its many wounds.

Hagrid grumbled about the Centaurs driving other creatures out of the forest and attempting to exterminate the Acromantulas. He didn’t win much sympathy for that. Pomfrey shook her head over a recent spate of Quidditch injuries, thanks to a particularly skilled and ruthless Hufflepuff Beater. Flitwick bemoaned the interference of the new Board of Governors, who clearly knew nothing about how to run a school of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Slughorn sipped his mead and tutted indiscriminately, seeming to support every idea and none at any given time.

Draco let it all wash over him, until he heard McGonagall say, “…only five new Slytherins this year, and one of them, Greely, may be leaving us.”

“Leaving?” Pomfrey demanded. “Why?”

“His parents want him out,” Slughorn said lugubriously. His fat face drooped unhappily. “They’re sending him to Durmstrang, if they can arrange it with the Headmaster.”

“Shame,” Hagrid rumbled. “Nice lad, Greely. One of the best this year.”

“He is,” McGonagall agreed sadly, “but he’s been bullied relentlessly by the older Gryffindors—they always target the smallest ones—and I can’t blame his parents for wanting to find a safer place for him.”

“Gryffindors bullying Slytherins?” Draco said blankly.

This simply did not track. It violated the basic order of things.

“It’s not the first time,” Harry assured him. “Why do you think Snape hated my father so much? He and Sirius—both Gryffindors, mind you—bullied him mercilessly.”

“So, if there are only five new Slytherins, where have all the others gone? The ones who should be in Slytherin?”

McGonagall sighed. “To other schools, like Durmstrang, for the most part. Or their parents educate them at home.”

“Or they talk the Sorting Hat into placing them in another house,” Flitwick piped in. He pasted an exceptionally innocent look on his face and added, “ _Someone_ taught them to argue with it.”

“Er… that would be me,” Harry admitted.

“It’s a shame,” McGonagall said. “We need our Slytherins, as we need all our students. I hate to see such a fine house, created by one of our Founders, die out because of prejudice and fear.”

“I rather think we’ve outgrown all our houses,” Pomfrey mused. “The real shame, in my mind, is to create divisions between the students where there needn’t be any. Only think,” here her eyes slid over to Harry and Draco, “what Hogwarts would be like if we didn’t have Gryffindors and Slytherins treating each other as enemies simply because of the color scarf they wear!”

“We must have _houses!_ ” Slughorn protested, shaken out of his smiling passivity by this appalling idea. “What of the House Championship? The Quidditch? The _pride?_ ”

Pomfrey blinked at him. “Can’t they be proud of their _school_ , rather than their _house?_ ”

“We must have some way to keep track of them all, if nothing else,” Flitwick opined.

“Albus once told me that he thought we Sorted the students too young,” McGonagall said. “I’ve begun to think he was right.”

“What are you suggesting, Minerva?” Slughorn demanded.

“That we wait. Keep all First Years together for a term, maybe an entire year, let them form friendships and alliances without the artificial constraints of houses to separate them. Then, hopefully, those friendships will endure when they move on to their various houses.”

“It’s a nice thought,” Harry said, tightening his hold on Draco’s waist and grinning at him, “but I probably would have murdered this git, if I’d been forced to share a dormitory with him for a whole year.”

“Always assuming that you lived long enough to do it,” Draco retorted, sparking laughter around the table.

They stayed for another hour, talking about anything and everything, until Flitwick pointed out that the Hogwarts professors were due back up in the Great Hall for supper. That signaled the end of the party. Everyone downed the last of their drinks and got up to leave.

Warmed by two glasses of mead and an afternoon of unprecedented belonging, Draco was feeling almost euphoric as he shook hands all around and let Pomfrey kiss his cheek again. Hagrid enveloped him in another rib-crushing hug, told him not to be a stranger, and plowed a wide path through the taproom to the door. Harry and Draco hurried in his wake, allowing his massive presence to shield them from any lingering hostility in the room. Then they were outside in the darkness, knee-deep in snow, huddled together under Harry’s invisibility cloak.

Draco wrapped both arms around Harry’s waist and buried his nose in the collar of his coat, inhaling his scent, along with the odors of butterbeer, woodsmoke and damp wool. It was every bit as intoxicating as oak-matured mead and far more seductive. His body flooded with heat. His cock stiffened.

“You’re in a good mood,” Harry murmured in his ear, rocking his hips to rub his own growing erection against Draco’s hip. “If I’d known what was going on in those fabulous jeans, I’d have taken you home and fucked you senseless hours ago.”

“Hmm.”

Draco slid his hands down to clasp Harry’s bum and pull their loins more tightly together. The next lift of Harry’s hips sent pleasure sparking along his spine and coiling in his belly. It dragged a soft moan from him.

Tilting his head back, he studied his husband’s face in the firelight spilling out of the pub. “Is this how it feels to be you, Harry?” he murmured. “To know you’re welcome everywhere? _Wanted_ everywhere?”

Harry’s smile turned quizzical, then he bent to kiss Draco’s upturned lips softly. “No,” he breathed. “This is how it feels to be _you_.”

Draco rose onto his toes, pressing their mouths together again, drinking in the heady taste of passion in his husband’s kiss. “Maybe. Tonight. With you.” He plunged his tongue into Harry’s mouth, claiming him, before pulling back slightly and adding, “Maybe, tonight, I _am_ you.”

Abruptly, without waiting for Harry to take the lead, he turned on the spot and apparated them both away.

They landed in the icy blackness of their bedroom. Draco stripped off the invisibility cloak and tossed it to the floor, while Harry lit the lamps and fire without bothering to draw his wand or look away from his husband’s face. In the sudden flare of light, Draco saw hunger, anticipation and wonder warring in his bottomless green eyes.

It was the look of a man about to be ravished. A man _aching_ to be ravished.

With a soft growl of warning, Draco grabbed the lapels of Harry’s coat and shoved him backward, onto the bed. Harry made no effort to catch himself, tumbling haphazardly down to sprawl across the mattress with his arms flung wide and one foot still on the floor, all the while gazing up at Draco with that incredible, enflaming look in his eyes.

Draco growled again, the sound rising unbidden in his throat, and crawled onto the bedto kneel between Harry’s spread legs, his hands braced on the mattress to either side of the other man’s head. His long hair spilled loose around them both, trailing on the eiderdown and forming a curtain as silvery, rare and beautiful as the cloak they had just discarded. Their eyes locked. Harry licked his lips, making them gleam wetly in the soft light.

“What are you going to do?” he whispered.

His voice sent a shiver of want through Draco’s body.

“What you would do,” he whispered back.

Harry lifted a hand to touch his face, almost reverently. “Don’t try to be me.” His voice was a soundless purr, a brush of velvet that lit Draco’s nerve endings on fire. “Just be you and take what you want.”

“I…” He broke off, swallowed, and tried again. “I want…”

The words wouldn’t come. He heard them in his head, felt them in his cock, but couldn’t get them out of his mouth.

Harry spoke them for him. “You want to fuck me.”

Sudden tears burned his eyes. “Is that what you want?”

“Yes.” The word was firm, almost commanding, but even as he spoke it, Harry changed. He softened, stilled, his hands loosing their grip on the quilt and curling up helplessly, the gleam in his eyes going from fierce to pleading. And then he breathed, “Yes, _please_ …”

Draco had always adored Harry’s body. He couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t want to touch it, explore it, enjoy it, pleasure it. Even as a child, when he had no idea what to do with another boy in his bed, he had seen those bony wrists poking out of Harry’s wide, black sleeves and longed to touch them. Fondle them. Press his lips to the blue veins pulsing beneath his sickly-pale skin. He had burned at the thought, flushed with shame and hot with desire.

That lovely, gawky, graceless body had taught him what he was.

The Harry lying spread-eagled on the bed while Draco stripped him naked was no longer gawky or graceless. Gone were the bony wrists, the awkward limbs, the starved and sun-deprived look of a child raised in a cupboard. This Harry was strong and sure and powerful. Long-limbed, square-shouldered, hard-muscled. And still so beautiful that it hurt Draco to look at him.

Like staring at the sun.

As he peeled back layers of fabric, dragging his fingers over shivering, sweat-dampened skin, Draco marveled at the way the other man seemed to glow with magic. As if his body were full of it, lighting him from within. It gave his skin a golden cast in comparison to Draco’s porcelain-white coldness. It tasted hot and sweet on his tongue when he licked a stripe up the back of Harry’s thigh.

He licked up and up, finding the taut curve of one buttock and sucking lightly at it. Harry shifted under him, trying to lift his hips and uttering a panting moan. Draco pressed his hand to the tops of his thighs to hold him still, and Harry’s cries became more urgent.

“Oh, _fuck!_ Fuck, Draco… _please!_ ”

The desperation in his voice went through Draco like an electric shock, setting his nerves alight and bringing a pulse of wetness from his cock. He reached for his wand, lying ready beside him, and banished his own clothing in an instant. Then he bent to plant a kiss at the small of Harry’s back and raised his wand.

He knew how to do this. He’d done it to himself often enough for the enjoyment of others. He knew the spells he needed for cleansing and protection and to coat his fingers with lube. He knew how to circle the rim, coaxing it to relax, slicking it up, then ease in afingertip. How to read the jerk of muscles, the catch of breath, the lift and roll of hips. When to press in, when to pause. How to crook his finger, just so, to send a jolt of pleasure through a man’s body and make him push back, begging for more.

He got two fingers in. Then three. Harry was up on his knees, thighs spread wide, cock lying hot and thick and wet with hunger up his belly, fucking back onto Draco’s fingers and sobbing into a pillow. Draco fastened his lips to one buttock, sucking, then pushed his tongue in to lick around his own fingers and the flesh stretched so tight across them.

The taste, the smell, the noises Harry made were intoxicating. Like a hit of opium to his system, lifting him out of himself. He growled softly, worked his tongue in deeper, intent only on hearing that sob again. That high, hungry whine. That pleading for more and more and more.

He could make Harry come just like this… Take him, torment him, satisfy him, draw that beautiful, needy sound from his lips…

“Don’t… don’t make me come yet!” Harry panted, interrupting his heated thoughts.

Draco looked up, eyes bleared and only half-focused, to find Harry’s head twisted against the pillow and one lust-blown green eye fixed on him.

“Not ’til you’re inside me!”

Sitting back on his heels once more, Draco eased his fingers carefully out of Harry’s body. “Turn over. I want to look at you.”

With a breathless laugh, Harry rolled onto his back and pushed himself up on his elbows. Draco gazed intently at him—at his blown pupils, flushed cheeks, swollen lips—and saw nothing but eagerness. Longing. _Want_.

“Are you sure?” he asked, very softly.

Harry laughed again and bent his knees, opening himself shamelessly. “I’m sure!”

Keeping his eyes glued to Harry’s face, searching for any sign of doubt or resistance, Draco caught him behind the knees, pushing them up to his shoulders and holding them in place, then shifted forward until the head of his cock rested against his hole. He felt the ring of muscle pulse at his touch, clenching then loosening.

Begging.

“Fuck, Harry,” he whispered, his voice shaking.

“Do it!” Harry gasped. “Do it… fuck me, Dragon… Oh, God! _Nnngh… Fuck!_ ”

This last was dragged out of him as Draco finally breached him. He tried to go slowly, to give Harry time to adjust, but at the first hot caress of that perfect arse, the last of his control went up in flames and his desire took over. He rocked forward, pushed in and in, feeling Harry shudder beneath him, hearing him cry out in pain, until his bollocks pressed into the curve of his arse. He took a gasping breath, paused, gathered himself, then began to move.

It was so good… Nothing like his fantasies… The heat of Harry’s body. The way it clenched around his cock, seeming to swallow it. The sounds he made when Draco drove into him. The way his head fell back and his eyes rolled up. The way his skin flushed with want and beaded with sweat. The way the wetness from his cock pooled on his belly.

It was fucking heaven.

Draco felt the orgasm gathering in his core and snapped his hips forward harder, more urgently. Harry panted and whined beneath him, rolling his hips up to take in more of him, searching for his lips and the kiss he craved. Their mouths met. Slid messily against each other. Parted and crashed together again. Harry bit at Draco’s lip and moaned when Draco thrust his tongue hard into his mouth.

That wrecked, filthy sound was the last straw for Draco. Pleasure sparked along every nerve and erupted in his groin. His hips jerked, burying him still deeper in Harry’s body. His cock leapt, spurting, and he came so hard that it almost stopped his heart.

When his mind swam up out of the molten soup of his release, he was still crouched over Harry, buried to the hilt inside him, sheened with sweat and shaking in reaction. He choked on a gasp, his arms buckling, and he fell hard onto Harry’s chest. They both tumbled to the bed.

Harry caught him, pulling him close, and muttered, “Fuck, that was brilliant.”

Draco tried to answer, but he didn’t have enough oxygen or brain cells for speech. He simply lay there, sucking air desperately into his lungs, waiting for the world to right itself, grateful for Harry’s arms that kept him from sliding off into the void. Then—slowly, reluctantly—he became aware of what was pressed against his stomach.

Harry’s cock. Hard and leaking.

Shoving himself upright, Draco fixed him with dazed eyes and whispered, “You didn’t come.”

“I’m sure you can find a way to fix that.”

Harry’s voice was low and rough, like fingers dragging over his skin. Draco stared down into his lust-blown eyes and shivered at the trust he saw there, the complete surrender. He smiled and began to slide down the other man’s body, kissing and licking as he went, pausing to bite at a nipple, to suck a rosy mark into soft skin.

Harry groaned and strained up to meet his mouth, unable to control his reaction, even as he gasped, “Wait…”

But Draco did not wait. He worked his way down until he fetched up between Harry’s sprawled legs, crouched on elbows and knees, head bent over his enraged cock. It was gorgeous. And so hungry. He thought of holding it on his tongue and his lips swelled in anticipation.

“You don’t have to do that!”

Draco shot him a look from beneath his lashes. “I want to.”

Then he swallowed Harry’s cock.

His nose sank into dark curls, and a familiar, musky smell filled his head. He hummed his pleasure and rolled his tongue languorously around the head of the cock in his mouth, tasting salt. Harry whimpered. His hips jerked up, thrusting in deeper, seeking more—more heat, more friction, more of the expert stroking of Draco’s tongue. In answer, Draco took the base of his shaft in one hand, his bollocks in the other, and went to work.

It took him less than a minute to finish the job. He was a master at this, after all, and he could tell by the tremor in Harry’s thighs, by the urgent, panting noises he made that he was at the end of his endurance. To drag it out would only cause him pain.

A few swirls of his tongue, a well-timed swallow, two fingers thrust into his slick opening at the perfect moment, and Harry was bucking up off the bed, fucking into his mouth, and keening his pleasure as he spurted down Draco’s throat. Draco swallowed the spunk easily—years of practice had its uses—and held him in his mouth until he began to soften. Then he pulled off, dropped a soft kiss on the inside of Harry’s thigh, and crawled up to cuddle against his shoulder.

They lay together in sated silence, wrapped around each other, letting the last of their tremors fade and a lovely, heavy lethargy enfold them. Draco burrowed his head into Harry’s shoulder and pulled the other man’s arm around him like a blanket—all the warmth and shelter he needed—then closed his eyes. His stomach rumbled, but he ignored it. He was far too comfortable to contemplate prying himself out of Harry’s arms and going in search of food.

“Did you really enjoy that?”

Harry’s soft whisper pulled him out of his golden, lust-warmed haze. He lifted his head and propped his chin on the other man’s chest.

“Hmm?”

“The blowjob. Did you enjoy it?”

Draco blinked. “Did you?”

“It was fucking amazing.” The utter conviction in his tone left no room for doubt. “ _You_ were fucking amazing.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“I just…” His fingers toyed with Draco’s hair and his gaze darkened. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to, you know… _service_ me. Like I was a customer.”

Draco smiled impishly at him. “Were you planning to pay me?”

Horror flooded Harry’s face for a moment, followed swiftly by the realization that he was joking. His wide, white grin lit the room and sent blood rushing south to Draco’s cock.

“What if I did?”

“I’d spend the next hour giving you the best blowjobs of your life, but then, when it was over, I’d kick you out of my bed and send you home to your wife.”

“What if I don’t have a wife?”

“Then you’d have to wank yourself raw, thinking of me. Of course, you’d probably do that anyway…”

“You’re that good, huh?”

Draco arched an eyebrow. “You doubt me?”

“Not for a second.”

Harry lifted his head and pulled Draco up to meet his lips. They kissed deeply, messily, their ever-present lust rising at the first touch. Draco opened his mouth and hummed with pleasure when he felt Harry’s tongue push into it. The hum turned to a groan when Harry’s hand found his arse and gripped one cheek in strong, callused fingers. He was already fully hard and aching.

“I want you so much,” Harry muttered against his wet, clinging lips. “Take me, Dragon. Fuck me. Fill me up. Make me scream and beg and come all over the sheets. Then do it again and again and again.”

Draco held his breath for a moment, letting the thrill of power course through him—the power to take what he wanted, the power to _choose—_ and decided just what he wanted tonight.

“Only if you do me, first.”

Harry gave a triumphant shout and rolled them both over, spilling Draco onto his back, landing on his chest. He grinned down at him with green flames dancing in his eyes, then bent to capture his mouth, murmuring, “It’s a deal…”

**_To be continued…_ **


	8. The Truth Will Out

* * *

_Le Monde Magique_

**_KNOCKTURN ALLEY CLUB OWNER FOUND DEAD_ **

_The body of Arnulf “Arfie” Pringle, owner-operator of the Knockturn Alley gentlemen’s club_ The Horntail _, was discovered late yesterday at his place of business. Pringle, better known to the wizarding community as Nero, was killed by an unidentified curse and his body placed in an unused room on an upper floor of the building. The killer then sealed the room, creating an unbroken stretch of wall that hid the body from casual view…_

_…The time and cause of death have yet to be determined, but Nero was last seen alive more than two days before his body was found…_

_…Nero achieved notoriety as the man who sheltered the fugitive Draco Malfoy and employed him as a sex worker during the years when he dared not show his face in wizarding society. He has since tried to blacken the name of the wizarding world’s most celebrated hero, calling Harry Potter everything from a kidnapper to a sexual deviant who controls his partner through abuse…_

* * *

_The Daily Prophet_

**_BOND SLAVE: THE TRUTH ABOUT DRACO MALFOY AND THE DARK LORD_ **

_…How is that no one at Hogwarts noticed that You Know Who’s bond slave was wandering the castle, wreaking havoc? “Oh, Dumbledore knew,” Rita assures us. “The batty, old codger thought he could control Malfoy, use him as a weapon against the Dark Lord, while Malfoy was busily trying to kill him. Dumbledore even lied to the Ministry and tricked Malfoy’s parents to keep him at Hogwarts, which, of course, set the stage for the tragedies that followed. But that was Dumbledore. Always thought he knew best and ready to do anything for his darling Harry!”_

_Rita revealed in her last explosive article how devoted Harry Potter was to his rent-boy lover, so it’s little wonder that he used his influence with Dumbledore to keep Malfoy at school, even when Malfoy himself was at risk._

_Rita explains, “At one point, Malfoy was attacked with an Unforgivable Curse, probably by some of his classmates trying to defend themselves and taking it a bit too far. Instead of reporting the crime to the Ministry, expelling the guilty parties, and sending Malfoy back to his master, Dumbledore orchestrated an elaborate ruse to hide the truth. As a result, Malfoy remained at large with You Know Who feeding him instructions and reportedly torturing him for fun, while a group of boys who had used the Cruciatus Curse on him went unpunished. It was a bizarre turn of events, even for Albus Dumbledore. I suppose Potter was the ultimate winner, since he was allowed to keep his bedwarmer.”…_

* * *

“But there are no signs of _Obliviation_ ,” Ron protested. “How can you be so sure he’s one of ours?”

“I just know,” Harry countered stubbornly.

“Like you _just_ _know_ about Goyle, even though the man is clearly barmy?”

“I’m telling you, Nero is one of ours.”

The voices carried through the open door to Harry’s office, bringing Draco to a halt just outside it. He stood stock still, turned to stone by the sound of that name.

He had not intended to eavesdrop. In fact, he had been studiously avoiding Ron since his arrival at the cottage that morning with an armload of files and a thunderous look on his face. He didn’t know what to say to the man, so he said nothing at all. Not even hello.

Then he’d decided he needed a cup of tea at exactly the wrong time and ended up here. Just his rotten luck.

“You’re holding out on me, mate.” Ron sounded disgusted and resigned in equal measure.

Draco couldn’t blame him. That was exactly what they were doing.

“Don’t push it, Ron.”

“How can we solve this case, if you don’t tell me what you know?”

“I just did. Nero is our latest victim.”

Draco’s limbs abruptly unlocked and he stepped through the door.

Harry and Ron sat on either side of the huge, antique desk that dominated the room. Its top was strewn with files and photographs, rolls and sheets of parchment, notes scribbled in Ron’s loose hand, ink pots, quills, and the remnants of a hasty lunch. All the detritus of Aurors hard at work.

They did not look up at his entrance, not hearing his sock-clad feet on the stone floor. Ron sat behind the desk in a high-backed chair—another one of Harry’s antiques charmed to provide modern comfort—with his elbows planted on the desktop and a single sheet of parchment in his hand. He looked even more out of sorts than when he’d first arrived, and the glare he fixed on Harry was accusing. Harry was slouching back in his chair, scowling, his answering glare as uncompromising as his partner’s.

The tension in the air was almost visible.

“What are you talking about?” Draco asked.

Two heads snapped around. Two pairs of eyes found him and widened. Ron swallowed, chagrin and discomfort creeping into his face, while Harry just looked annoyed.

“I told you to shut the door,” he groused, shooting a fresh glare at Ron.

“Why?” Draco demanded. “What don’t you want me to hear?”

He edged farther into the room, closer to the desk, and his gaze fell on a large picture pinned beneath Ron’s elbow. It was Nero. His old pimp. The image simpered at Draco and blew him a kiss. Draco grimaced and looked away.

Harry tugged the photo free and turned it over with a smack of his hand. “I don’t want you worrying about that fat fuck.”

“He was attacked, wasn’t he? Like the others?”

“No, _not_ like the others,” Ron declared, “but Harry’s convinced that our Memory Thief is responsible, and I want to know why.”

Draco was right up at the desk now, almost brushing Harry’s shoulder, looking down at the mess on its top. He noticed three large sheets of parchment among the general mess with colorful, almost psychedelic graphs on them that oscillated woozily. The movement and shifting colors made his stomach turn.

“What are those?”

“Magical scans.” At Draco’s confused look, he huffed, “They’re studies of the magic used by the Memory Thief on three of our victims. But I don’t want to talk about some ruddy scans! Not with fucking Nero dead on our hands and Harry…”

“Dead?” All the blood seemed to drain from Draco’s body in an instant. His lips went numb, his eyes blank, his limbs useless. He swayed drunkenly, unable to keep himself upright when no part of him functioned properly, and nearly fell.

Harry was abruptly on his feet. He caught Draco’s arm and guided him into his own chair, then summoned another for himself without letting go of the other man.

“Draco?”

He turned stunned, half-blind eyes on Harry, struggling to focus. “He’s dead?”

“Yes.” Harry sank into the third chair without turning to look for it. All his attention was riveted on his husband. “Just breathe. Come on.”

Draco obediently pulled in a breath. Let it out on something close to a sob. “What… what happened?”

“We don’t know, yet.” Harry began to rub his back soothingly. “He was found last night, sealed in a room with no door…”

“My room!” Draco gasped.

“It looks that way. Someone killed him, put him in the room, and restored the wall.”

Draco’s eyes flicked up to Harry’s face, full of a pleading even he did not understand. “Was it like Aysgarth? Did he just… lie there and…”

“No. It was quick.”

“A Killing Curse?”

Harry shook his head.

“More unknown magic,” Draco murmured. He clenched his eyes shut and began to shake. “Oh, fuck…”

Harry promptly dropped to his knees on the floor beside Draco’s chair and gathered him into his arms. Draco crumpled over, burying his face in Harry’s neck. The shudders continued to tear through him, making his bones rattle and his muscles spasm. Tears squeezed through his lashes.

“I’m sorry, Ferret,” Ron said. “I didn’t mean to drop it on you like that. But you can’t seriously be sorry the bugger’s dead.”

“He saved my life,” Draco whispered into Harry’s collar. “He kept me safe.”

“He _kept_ you all right, but I wouldn’t call it _safe!_ ”

“Leave it, Ron,” Harry growled. “Give him a minute.”

“I’m just saying…”

“Don’t.”

Ron huffed again and slumped back in his chair, arms crossed in irritation. Harry continued to rub Draco’s back until his tremors eased. Then he just held him and waited. Draco stayed as he was—huddled into Harry’s arms and against his shoulder—until his tears had dried and he thought he could face Weasel without totally humiliating himself. Then he pushed away from Harry’s support.

Ron still held his injured posture, but he looked more worried than annoyed when Draco finally straightened up.

“Sorry,” Draco mumbled, shoving his hair back from his damp, flushed face.

“You don’t have to apologize,” Harry said, rubbing Draco’s back once more as he climbed to his feet. “And you don’t have to explain your feelings.”

“Weasel’s right.” He sucked in another steadying breath, then swiped his sleeve across his eyes. “I shouldn’t be sorry. About any of them.”

Ron cocked his head, his eyes sharpening. “Now, that’s a very curious thing to say.” He shifted forward in his chair again, elbows coming down on the back of Nero’s picture. “Who exactly are _they_ , Ferret? And why shouldn’t you be sorry?”

“Ron,” Harry said warningly, but Draco shot him a look and shook his head.

“It’s okay. He has to know.”

“You don’t have to do this.”

Draco favored him with a small, crooked, wistful smile, then turned back to Weasel. He was frowning, looking between Draco and Harry with a question visibly poised on his lips. But the expression on Draco’s face silenced him.

“Harry’s right about Nero being part of your case,” Draco said quietly. “The Memory Thief did this to him.”

“How can you be sure? How is he connected to the others?”

“Through me.” He straightened his shoulders, bracing himself, and said firmly, “They’re all connected through me. I’m the link.”

Ginger brows snapped together across Ron’s nose. “ _How?_ ”

“I tried to tell you, after the interrogation. I said I knew all those men.”

“Yeah, and I…” His words died out in confusion and dawning horror.

Draco quirked a smile that had not a trace of humor in it.

“Are you saying that Warwick was right?” Ron demanded, his voice cracking. “That you… you slept with Sokolov?”

The non-smile twitched his lips again. “That might be too polite a word for it.”

“And the others? All of the victims?”

Draco watched the truth sink through Ron’s skin, into his brain and blood, filling him with crawling sickness and a desire to flee. He opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again with a snap and looked away, his jaw clenching.

“You knew I was a prostitute,” Draco said, his voice surprisingly even.

“For Nero. Because he forced you.”

“No. He never forced me. And I was a prostitute long before I met him.”

Troubled eyes flicked back over to his face for a bare moment, then away. Draco could tell by the hunch of his shoulders and the working of his jaw that he wanted to ask but didn’t dare.

“Since the Summer before our sixth year at Hogwarts.”

“ _What?!_ ” Ron almost shrieked, his eyes now locked to Draco’s face and wide as dinner plates.

“It was my father’s doing. He… made the discovery that I was attractive to older men and he started using me to buy allies and political favors. By the time I got back to school in September, I’d already been fucked by half the men in that file.” He nodded toward the mess on the desk.

“Wait just a fucking minute!” Ron sat forward again, positively vibrating with fury. “You’re telling me that Fucking Lucius—your _fucking father!_ —whored you out to these men?!” He shoved a hand through the nearest pile of papers, sending them skittering across the desk and onto the floor. No one reached to retrieve them. “He _sold you?!_ ”

“Yes.”

“And no one stopped him?! Your mother?! Dumbledore?! _Snape?!_ ”

“They didn’t know ’til it was too late.”

“Too late _how?!_ What could possibly keep them from… Oh.” Once again, the light dawned. “The Vow.”

Draco nodded.

“What about Harry?” Ron’s gaze flicked to his partner, full of disbelief and accusation. “Did you know?”

“I knew,” Harry said, grimly.

“And you let it happen?!”

“How was I supposed to stop it? We were underage. Our romance was a secret. Draco didn’t trust anyone on our side, and they didn’t trust him. What, exactly, was I supposed to do?”

“I…” Ron broke off, stymied, then said bitterly, “I thought Ferret was fucking _dying_. That whole year. It was like he was wasting away in front of us, and you kept telling me to stay out of it, to leave him be, that you were taking care of him. But you weren’t. No one was. _Bloody fucking hell!_ I don’t fucking _believe_ you two!”

“I’m sorry, Weasel,” Draco whispered.

“You’re _sorry?!_ You’re _fucking sorry?!_ What are _you_ sorry for?!”

“Lying to you for so long.”

“Lying… Of all the… I can’t fucking…” Ron spluttered to a stop, glaring at Draco with tears gleaming in his eyes.

For a beat no one moved. Then Ron abruptly bounced to his feet, rounded the desk and pulled Draco up into a crushing hug.

“You stupid fucking ferret,” he mumbled into the top of Draco’s head. “Ugly, scrawny, pureblood git of a ferret. Tell me who to kill to make this better.”

Draco gave a watery laugh, his whole body shaking with it. “No one. It’s over.”

“Let me hurt someone. Please.” He pushed away to look down into Draco’s flushed, embarrassed face with a hopeful smile on his own. “I could dig up Lucius’ body and do unspeakable things to it.”

Draco laughed again and felt tears slip down his face. “He was cremated.”

“To his ashes, then. We could turn them into bricks and use them to line a sewer. Please? The fucking wankstain deserves it.”

Draco shook his head, gently detaching himself from Weasel’s arms and returning to his chair. Ron circled the desk again, dropping into his own chair and fixing Draco with a pleading gaze.

“I feel like such a berk, letting you hurt like that for a whole bloody year, not trying to help.”

“You didn’t know. I didn’t want you to know.”

“I knew something was wrong. Hermione and I both did. And we should’ve kept after you ’til you spilled it because that’s what friends do.”

“Bully and pry and invade each other’s privacy?”

“Yup.”

“Absolutely,” Harry chimed in.

A genuine, if slightly frayed smile lit Draco’s face. He eyed the two men with a fondness that he did not even try to hide. If he had no one else in this world who cared about him, these two would be enough. More than enough.

More than he deserved.

Ron was back in Auror mode, collecting the spilled files from the floor, stacking them on the desk again and trying to make some order out of the chaos. He was also grappling with what Draco had told him and what it meant for the case. As the pieces fell into place, he began to scowl again—thoughtfully this time.

“Okay, Ferret, so you’re telling me that you are the link between all these men.” He splayed his hands wide over the scattered files.

“That’s right.”

“Because of what your father did to you?”

“That’s only part of it.”

“So tell me the rest.”

Draco told him. He told him about Aysgarth in the greenhouse and the ordeal that followed. About Nott and Goyle and Fenrir Greyback. About Phineas Boggs buying him from his father, then offering him a life as a fuck-toy in exchange for shelter. About Nero and the long, long line of men who had paid for the privilege of plowing his arse every night at the club.

He sorted the pictures of all the Memory Thief victims into three piles under three names—Lucius, Phineas and Nero. The men who’d sold his arse for their own gain. The Lucius pile was the largest. The Nero pile had only two faces in it—Nero himself and Saul Croaker.

“I had a lot of Ministry customers at The Horntail,” he explained, “but most of them hid their faces, so they would be hard to identify. I suspect that’s why the Memory Thief hasn’t found them.”

“Hmm.” Ron stared broodingly at the photos. “The real question is, how has the Thief found _any_ of them?”

“I have no fucking idea.” Draco slumped dejectedly in his chair. “I’ve been going over and over it since Warwick showed me those pictures, and I can’t figure it out. No one person knows all of this.”

“No one outside this room,” Harry amended.

“Even _inside_ this room,” Draco stated. “You and Weasel know the broad strokes, but you don’t know the names of all the men who’ve fucked me over the years. Hell, Harry, even _I_ don’t know their names! Only their faces!”

“And this,” Ron swept his hand over the Rogue’s Gallery on the desk, “isn’t all of them.”

“Not even close. It was _five years_ , Weasel. _Five_ _years_ as a whore and fuck-toy. At The Horntail, I’d do six or seven men a night—two after each stage set, with a third at the end of the night, if it was busy—and that’s only counting the ones who paid for a full hour. It could get up as high as ten, if you count the ones who got in before the first show or paid a Galleon for a quickie up against a wall.”

“Bloody hell, Ferret!” Ron muttered, only just stopping himself from whistling.

“My point is that there are a lot of potential victims out there.”

“Right.” Ron drummed his fingers on the desk, thinking, obviously trying to shake off the unpleasant images Draco had conjured in his head. “So, you haven’t told anyone outside this room what happened to you?”

“My mother, but again, only in broad strokes. The only names I used were Boggs and Greyback.”

“Bloody hell!” Harry blurted out.

The others turned to stare at him.

“Names!” he shouted. “We’ve been obsessing about _names_ when even Draco doesn’t know them all, but what about _faces?_ ”

Draco blinked at him. “What about them?”

“Think about it! If you can identify these men by their faces, then so could our Memory Thief!”

“Only if he saw them.”

“Which he—or she—could… if they used Legilimency.”

Dead silence met this pronouncement, as Draco scrambled to unspool all the implications of what Harry had said and Ron dug through the drifts on the desk in search of a particular file. He found it, tore it open, and scanned the single sheet of parchment inside. When he closed the file again and looked up, his face was ablaze with triumph.

“Nero was legilimensed!”

Harry met his eyes, and they both grinned in the same moment. Draco felt his stomach drop. He had the hideous idea that he knew where this was going.

“So was Boggs,” Harry crowed, “and Goyle!”

“Goyle?” Draco frowned. “What could they learn from Goyle?”

“How much did he know about what your father was doing to you?”

“Enough to want his turn, but I wouldn’t count on much more than that.”

“Okay, how about Lestrange?”

“He would know,” Draco said grimly.

His stomach was down in his fluffy, white socks now.

“You realize what this means?”

“I’m sure you’re going to tell me,” Draco grumbled, eyes on the floor.

“It means that the Memory Thief could be anyone who knew the broad strokes, as you put it, and who could gain access to key people from your past. All it would take is one person who remembered names or faces. One person from each of these time periods.” He nodded at the three piles of pictures. “And our Thief could get everything they needed.”

“Thanks to the bloody _Prophet,_ that’s most of Wizarding Britain,” Ron pointed out.

Harry shook his head. “No, this started with Boggs and Goyle. The stories about Boggs haven’t revealed his arrangement with Draco, and Goyle hasn’t been mentioned at all. It didn’t come from the papers.” His gaze shifted to Draco again. “It had to come from you, Dragon.”

Draco shook his head. “I know what you’re thinking, but it’s not possible. She wouldn’t. She _couldn’t_.”

Harry just looked at him with those big, sad, green eyes.

“ _She couldn’t!_ ”

“How is her Legilimency?”

“I don’t know!”

“Are we talking about who I think we are?” Ron asked.

“We’re talking about my mother!” Draco almost shouted. “My _mother! Murdering_ people!”

“For you,” Harry said softly. “For the only person she truly loves.”

“Even if she wanted to, even if she were that ruthless and bloodthirsty, she couldn’t possibly get away with it! She’s virtually a prisoner in that cottage, her every move watched, her wand Traced, her floo monitored…”

“He’s got a point, mate,” Ron said.

“And then there are the crimes themselves,” Draco went on heatedly. “Tying up these men? Beating them? _Raping_ them? Can you honestly see my mother doing that?!”

“Narcissa’s more the _Crucio-_ into-a-coma type than the broomstick-up-the-arse type,” Ron agreed.

Draco shot him a nasty look but accepted the support without quibble, however crudely given.

“Okay,” Harry conceded, “but if it’s not Narcissa, who does that leave us? Andromeda?”

Ron rolled his eyes. “She’s even less likely to bugger some poor bloke for revenge than her sister is. Especially considering that she doesn’t know Ferret and would only be doing it as a favor to Narcissa. No personal stake in it, if you see what I mean.”

“True.”

“Then there’s this weird-ass magic,” Ron went on, waving one of his psychedelic graphs under Harry’s nose. “Would Andromeda know how to produce this?”

“Would anyone?” Harry countered. “How can I answer that when I don’t have a fucking clue what it is?”

“Exactly my point. We don’t have a fucking clue.”

“Just stop blaming my mother,” Draco snapped.

“I don’t blame your mother,” Harry said earnestly. “In fact, even if she _did_ this, I don’t blame her! I understand why she would!”

“Except that she _wouldn’t!_ ”

“All right. You’re right. She’s probably not our Memory Thief. But I still need to talk to her and find out if she’s told anyone else about your past.”

Draco’s head snapped around. He shot Harry a narrow, dangerous look. “I’m coming with you.”

“No, you’re not.”

“If you think I’m going to let you bully my mother…”

Harry actually laughed at that, bringing a fierce scowl to Draco’s face. “Bully Narcissa Malfoy? Are you mental?”

“Then why won’t you let me come?”

“Because I need to talk to her without you glaring daggers at me! And because I don’t think it’s safe for you to visit her right now. I don’t want the Unmentionables finding you there.”

“He’s right, Ferret,” Ron said. “Warwick is already bragging about what he’ll do when he gets his hands on you again. You don’t want to make it any easier for him.”

Draco glared at them both, out of arguments but unwilling to give in. Finally, he shot to his feet and headed for the door, his body rigid with anger.

“Where are you going?” Harry demanded.

“I need tea. That’s why I came down here in the first place.”

He could feel Harry’s face brightening, even with his back turned. His smile warmed the entire room. “That’s brilliant! Tea fixes everything! Bring us a cup?”

Draco did not vouchsafe him a response, just stalked out of the room, muttering, “ _Git_.”

*** *** ***

As usual, Neville might as well have been invisible as he moved through Auror HQ. The corridors were nearly deserted, most of the Force out in the field, but even when he did pass a colleague intent on some errand, they barely glanced up to acknowledge him. That was fine. He preferred the company of his own thoughts.

He was pondering the implications of an illegal shipment of dried henbane that they had intercepted just yesterday, when he heard a familiar voice snap, “This is the second time I’ve stuck my neck out for you, Ed, and the second time you’ve bungled it!”

He stopped. Looked up and around. Realized that he was standing just outside Warwick’s office and that the door had been left carelessly cracked open.

The voice belonged to Robards and he was in a strop.

“We haven’t bungled anything,” Warwick replied, sounding far too pleased with himself for a man being called incompetent by his boss. “We’ll get the little prick, don’t you worry.”

“I am worried, and you should be, too. If anyone finds out about that illegal Trace…”

Neville gulped. Was he hearing right? Were they discussing an unauthorized wand Trace? That was more than just illegal. It was catastrophic to a case, along the lines of administering Veritaserum without permission. And that thought told him, as their words had not, who they were discussing.

He edged closer to listen.

“They won’t. Once we have him in custody, we’ll remove it and no one the wiser.”

“ _When_ you have him in custody!” Robards snorted. “And _when_ will that be? After another few bodies pile up? Or he _Obliviates_ half the wizard population of Britain?”

“You’re the one who told me to wait,” Warwick pointed out, his voice sly. “You wanted something big enough to break him? Well, you’ve got it. And don’t you worry, I’ll drop that dead pimp on him so hard that it crushes him to powder.”

The man sounded as if he were literally licking his chops as he said it.

“I’ll believe that when I see him in a cell,” Robards pointed out sourly. “So far, all I’ve had are empty threats and promises.”

“It’s Potter’s wards that are protecting him. They’re strong enough to blur the Trace, and even if we could pinpoint the location, we couldn’t get through the wards to grab him.”

“So this Trace that I’m risking my career for is completely useless…”

“Not completely. We have a general idea where the cunt is hiding. And he can’t stay behind the wards forever, especially not if he wants to hunt down his next victim. Sooner or later, he’ll come out. Sooner or later, he’ll use his wand and we’ll have him. We almost did last night, but he only used it to apparate back behind the wards, so we never had a chance to move on him.”

“He didn’t use his wand when he killed Nero. _If_ he killed Nero.”

“You don’t seriously doubt that, do you, Guv? He’s our man. We know it. And once I have him, I’ll prove it. I’ll squeeze a confession out of him that even Precious Potter himself won’t be able to talk his way around.”

“Don’t underestimate Potter. And don’t try my patience too far. Either arrest the man and get solid proof that he’s the Memory Thief, or move on to another suspect, before I have to explain away anymore corpses!”

That was enough for Neville. More than enough. Backing away from the open door on silent feet, he turned and made for the lifts at a near-run, his mind whirling.

He had to warn Harry and Malfoy about the Trace. Warwick was insane, completely off his nut, so obsessed with putting Malfoy in prison that he didn’t even care who was really behind the attacks, so long as Malfoy was blamed for them. He’d already tried to beat a confession out of him, now he was Tracing his wand. What else would he do, if Harry and Malfoy continued to thwart him? And if he actually _caught_ Malfoy? What then?

Neville shuddered.

He couldn’t let that happen. Entirely aside from the fact that Malfoy was Harry’s husband and Harry was one of his best friends, the man was innocent. Neville was sure of it. And _no one,_ no matter what crimes he may have committed, deserved what Warwick would do to Malfoy, if he got the chance.

He was halfway across the Atrium, passing the Magical Brethren fountain, when he abruptly realized that he didn’t have a plan. In fact, he had no idea where he was going. He halted, looked around in confusion, then sat down on the curb of the fountain to think.

Harry had gone to ground with Malfoy, he was sure. Knowing Harry, they would be protected behind wards and spells that no Auror could possibly breach. That was reassuring because it meant Malfoy was safe, but it made finding them a challenge.

On the other side of the equation, Robards was backing Warwick, which made the man far more dangerous. How many laws could he break, while Robards conveniently looked the other way? Could he monitor Harry’s floo connections, intercept his mail, watch his London house? Neville had to assume that he was doing any or all of these things. Which meant that he couldn’t contact Harry without alerting Warwick.

It was a conundrum. He needed Ron’s strategic brain to help him with this one.

With a dejected sigh, he pushed himself to his feet and started back toward the lift.

He would just have to wait for Ron to put in an appearance at HQ. Ron would know how to bypass Warwick and reach Harry, then everything would be all right. In the meantime, he had to rely on Harry’s native caution to keep Malfoy safely behind the wards.

It would have to be enough.

*** *** ***

Narcissa had tea ready for him. It was not the lavish spread he’d come to expect from her, but then, he hadn’t given her much warning. Just enough time for Lissy to whip together some crustless cucumber sandwiches and frosted angel cakes. He eyed them grimly as he took his usual spindly chair and accepted the cup Narcissa passed to him.

Did she think this was a social call? Or was this her way of armoring herself against whatever unpleasantness he brought?

“Help yourself to sandwiches, Harry. Lissy remembered that you prefer cucumber.”

Harry opened his mouth to tell her he wasn’t hungry, but changed his mind. He didn’t want to offend her or put her on the defensive, so he had to play the polite guest. Offering her a slight smile, he chose a sandwich from the artistic arrangement on the plate and bit off one corner. Then he remembered—too late—that it was rude to talk with his mouth full. He had to eat the ruddy thing before he could begin.

Narcissa waited for him to chew, swallow, and wash it all down with a swig of tea. When his mouth was empty and his cup returned to the table, she fixed him with a steady, smiling gaze and asked, “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Harry?”

“I need to talk to you about Draco.”

Her smile faltered. “Is something wrong? Is he unwell?”

“No, nothing like that.”

Now that it came down to it, Harry didn’t know how to broach the subject. He almost wished that he still hated her, still blamed her for Draco’s predicament, so he could treat her like a hostile witness. But he couldn’t do that with Draco’s mother. His own mother-in-law. He had to go carefully, win her trust and cooperation, use finesse instead of blunt force.

Finesse was never his forte.

“He’s fine,” Harry said, in his most disarmingly earnest tone. “He’s safe, for now, but he’s in a dangerous position. It’s this Memory Thief case. Have you read about it?”

She nodded, a frown creasing her brow.

“Then you know how serious it is. Two people have died. The Press, the wizarding public, and most of the Auror Force want to blame Draco for the attacks. They’re frothing at the mouth, just waiting for the chance to tear him limb from limb, to mount his head on a spike over the gates of Azkaban. The scary thing is that he _is_ involved, and if they find out how, they’ll have him where they want him.”

“My son is not the Memory Thief!” Narcissa said heatedly.

Harry quirked a humorless smile at her. “I don’t need you to tell me that.”

“Then what do you need from me, Mr. Potter? My assurance that I am not, either?”

Harry couldn’t miss the ice in her tone or her retreat into formality, but he didn’t let it nettle him. He just smiled at her and said, “What I really need is some idea of who it might be.”

“You think I know?”

“I think that it has to be someone who knows what Draco has suffered since Lucius first started using him, and who cares enough to try to make it right. That doesn’t give us a very long list of suspects.”

“Unless it’s someone trying to hurt him by dredging up his past in this dreadful way.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Or someone so jealous of his affections that he will torture any other man who dares touch him.”

Harry grinned. “Like me?”

“Are you the jealous type, Mr. Potter?”

“Very. But not of those pathetic wankers. Draco says he didn’t want them, and I believe him.”

She nodded once, as if mentally checking a box, then said, “Where does that leave us? I did not harm those men. You did not. Draco did not. Who, then?”

“It has to be someone who knows what he went through, knows where to dig to find all the buried bodies. Boggs and Nero were both legilimensed. Gregory Goyle was as well, though he’s not technically part of this case, and I suspect Rodolphus Lestrange…”

He stalled out, thrown by the look of white-faced horror Narcissa fixed on him, and frowned in concern.

“What’s wrong? What did I say?”

She swallowed, visibly struggling to control herself, and whispered in a strained tone that Harry had never heard come out of her mouth before, “Legilimency. You said… the Thief used Legilimency.”

“We think that’s the key to this whole case. That’s how the Thief learned who had been using Draco, who needed to be punished.”

She shook her head, eyes glassy and unfocused. “No.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Malfoy. Narcissa. I don’t like it either. The idea that someone is prying into the most painful parts of Draco’s life like that makes me sick to my stomach. But if we can put aside our feelings and figure out who knows enough even to start…”

“No.” She shook her had again. “No, it’s not… not what you think.”

His scalp prickled in warning. He shifted forward in his chair to prop his elbows on his knees. “What are you saying?”

“It wasn’t him. The Thief.” Tears began to slip from her eyes and paint tracks down her flawless cheeks. “He didn’t look into their minds.”

Certainty settled like a stone in Harry’s stomach. He had to ask the question anyway, to hear it said aloud. “Who did?”

Her gaze locked to his, and for the first time since he had met her, he saw behind the walls that protected her. Saw through all the layers—the fear, the anger, the guilt, the desperate love—all the way to the sick, festering despair that lay at her heart. Despair born of a knowledge she had long wished she didn’t have.

“I did.”

“You used Legilimency on those men.” She nodded. “ _Why?_ ”

She swallowed, her white throat working to hold back the bile that rose in it. “I had to know.”

Pain settled in Harry’s chest. Pity. Sorrow. A hint of admiration for the courage of this woman who had looked into a stranger’s mind and watched her own son’s degradation.

“Did it help?”

She turned away, her tears quickening, and shook her head very slightly.

“Narcissa.” She continued to stare at something off to her left, weeping softly, and Harry reached over to touch her knee. “Narcissa, please.”

Finally, she turned back to face him, drawing herself up proudly, though her cheeks were slick with tears and her nose turning red. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Potter, I need a handkerchief…”

The words were barely out of her mouth when Lissy appeared beside her with a sharp _crack_. The elf held out a pristine white square of linen to her mistress. Narcissa took it with a smile of thanks and raised it to blot at her face.

Lissy turned wide, reproachful eyes on Harry. “Harry Potter is upsetting my Mistress.”

“We’re just talking, Lissy.”

“Harry Potter is speaking of Master Draco. This is upsetting my Mistress and making her cry. Harry Potter should not be doing this. Harry Potter should be going home to Master Draco and keeping him safe, so Mistress is not needing to cry for him.”

“Draco is safe and I’m not finished here. I’m sorry, but I need to talk to Narcissa, and I’d rather do it in private. Would you excuse us?”

“It’s all right, Lissy, I’m fine,” Narcissa assured her, surfacing from the folds of her handkerchief with her face largely repaired.

“Lissy does not want to leave Mistress alone with Harry Potter.”

“Please. Harry is Draco’s husband and my friend. He won’t harm me.”

The elf gave Harry a final, warning glower, then bowed and snapped out of existence. Narcissa folded her hands in her lap, clutching the handkerchief a bit too tightly but no longer crying. Harry resumed his intent posture, leaning forward, watching her closely.

“If you’re the one who performed Legilimency on those men, how can I be sure you didn’t _Obliviate_ them, as well?”

“Because I’m telling you that I did not. When I walked away from each of them, he was alive and well and in full possession of his faculties.”

“How did you manage it with the Unmentionables watching you?”

“With my sister’s help.”

Harry stiffened, remembering his conversation with Andromeda. She had looked him in the face and lied. Baldly. Unflinchingly. And he had swallowed it.

“How?”

“We used Polyjuice potion to change places. She stayed here at the cottage with Teddy, disguised as me, while I returned to Britain with her face and her wand.”

“So it was you, not Andromeda, who visited Boggs at the Manor.”

“Yes. I went to him first, knowing he was one of the men who had bartered with Lucius to… _enjoy_ my son, and that he had kept Draco there at the Manor after the war. I talked my way into his presence, flattered him for a while, then plundered his memories to find out what he had done to Draco.” Her eyes burned with rage and her lips pulled back in a snarl. “After looking into his mind, I would gladly have murdered him, but I did not. I walked away and left that creature to his perverted pleasures.”

“He didn’t enjoy them for long.”

“No, and I cannot pretend that I’m sorry.”

“What about Goyle?”

“I went to the prison to see Rodolphus but he was ill, dying, too weak to stand. My Legilimency is competent, at best, and I cannot manage it without physical contact, so I was unable to get what I needed from him. Then I remembered that lump, Goyle, always loitering about the Manor and staring at Draco.” Her face twisted in contempt. “I had to _Confund_ the guard so he didn’t remember taking me to the cell or what I did while I was there.”

“Which was?”

She grimaced. Gave a snort of hard, humorless laughter. “I looked in his pathetic excuse for a brain, saw what he’d done to Draco, and realized that he was ashamed of it.” Her eyes spat fire for a moment and she laughed again. “Ashamed of molesting his son’s oldest friend! A boy of sixteen! Imagine that! Well, I made sure that he took a long, hard look at himself. That he relived every moment of his shame. Then I told him that if he ever breathed a word of it to anyone, I’d cut off his bollocks and ram them down his throat!”

The fire in her died and her fierce anger turned to festering sadness. “I have lived off of the terror in his eyes ever since.”

“You hit him with a Stinging hex?” Harry asked, softly.

“Yes. I did that.”

“And you didn’t hurry Lestrange along at all?”

Her eyes flickered up to him, full of doubt. “I did nothing to Dolph. Why?”

“He died the next day.”

“Well.” She looked away, face set. “Again, I’ll not pretend I’m sorry.”

“So, you never learned the full extent of what Lucius put Draco through.”

She shook her head.

“You didn’t know, for instance, that Goran Aysgarth was the first man to purchase him from Lucius?”

The look she turned on him was wide and disbelieving. “Aysgarth? Aysgarth. The Quidditch player.”

“That’s right.”

“I remember the party we threw so Lucius could court him as an ally. It was the day after Draco came home for the Summer holidays. Are you telling me that’s when it started? When he’d barely been under our roof for a day?”

Harry nodded.

Narcissa closed her eyes, lifting a hand to cover her mouth. After a moment to collect herself, she said, tightly, “If Lucius were here now, I’d…”

“No, because there’d be nothing left of him after I was through. Tell me about Nero.”

She took a shaking breath, dropped her hand, and gazed squarely at him. “I never sawthat man.”

“He was legilimensed, just like the others.”

“Not by me. By the time I knew he existed, I had already learned more than I could bear about Draco’s life. The notion of watching him perform as a prostitute for that hideous pudding of a man was too appalling even to consider. I burned the paper with his interview in it and pretended I’d never read it.”

“What about Andromeda? Could she have done it?”

Narcissa shook her head firmly. “She never knew why I borrowed her face or her wand. I told her I was desperate to see Draco again and afraid to go back to England wearing my own face. She would never have agreed to the switch, if she’d known what I planned.”

Harry thought back to his interview with Andromeda again and decided that Narcissa was both right and wrong. She was right that Andromeda had not known what she planned at the time. But after hearing about her own supposed visit to Boggs and Bellatrix’s appearance in Azkaban, she had figured it out. And she almost certainly would have agreed to the switch, no matter what her sister planned to do while wearing her face. She had said as much to Harry.

Which meant that Andromeda was still a suspect.

“Did you tell her _why_ you were so desperate to see Draco?” he asked.

“I didn’t need to. She had watched me mourn my son since the time I was reunited with her.”

“But you told her about the prostitution. About Lucius and Boggs.”

Narcissa’s eyes widened in horror. “I did not.”

“Nothing? Not even when you were crying on her shoulder?”

“I do not cry on my sister’s shoulder,” Narcissa said stiffly, “and I would never burden her with that knowledge. Or betray Draco by revealing it.”

“Who _have_ you told, then?”

“No one.”

“No one? You’re absolutely sure?”

“Absolutely. Why are you so adamant that I must have shared these very personal, very painful secrets?”

“Because someone has got hold of them—someone besides you, me and Draco—and if we can figure out _how_ , maybe we can figure out _who_.”

She shook her head regretfully. “I’m sorry, Harry. I have not told anyone.”

“Hmm.”

He sat and thought for a long minute, tapping his fingers restlessly on his knee. Then he shook off his reverie and said, briskly, “I have to get back and brief Ron. I appreciate your candor, Narcissa, and I’m sorry I had to put you through this.”

“Just find this Memory Thief before his crimes endanger my son.”

“That’s the plan. In the meantime, I need you to be very careful. Stay in this cottage. Go about your normal routine. Use your wand regularly, so the Ministry knows you’re here and doesn’t get twitchy. Don’t contact Andromeda. And… Lissy?” he suddenly called.

The elf appeared beside him with her customary alacrity. Bowing, first to him, then to Narcissa, she squeaked, “Harry Potter has need of Lissy?”

“I just want to give you a warning. The Ministry may be sniffing around here more than usual and it’s very important that they find nothing out of place. You need to keep out of sight. No one can know you’re here. In fact, it might be better if you find someplace else to stay for a while so they don’t detect your magic…”

“Wizards are not seeing elf magic,” Lissy said firmly. “Lissy is always using magic here and Ministry wizards are not noticing.”

“Still, better to be safe. You wouldn’t want your mistress to get into trouble.”

“No, Lissy is not wanting that,” she replied with a bow.

Harry got to his feet, collected his coat, and allowed Narcissa to kiss him on either cheek. He felt the urge to hug her, to give her just a bit of the physical comfort that Draco undoubtedly would were he here, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. Instead, he smiled, clasped her hands, and bid her a warm goodbye. Lissy was harder to detach himself from, since she decided that his legs were her best substitute for Draco’s and wrapped her skinny arms around them so tightly that he nearly pitched over on his face.

“Tell Master Draco that Lissy is missing him and thinking of him every day!” she wailed.

“I will.” He patted her back. “I’m sure he’ll come see you just as soon as he can.”

“Harry Potter is keeping him safe and happy? Harry Potter is not letting the bad wizards take him away and hurt him and punish him for things he did not do?”

“I promise you that I’ll keep him safe and I won’t allow anyone to punish him. Please let go of me now, Lissy. I can’t go home to Draco until you do.”

“If Lissy is to leave the Mistress’ cottage, she could come with Harry Potter and take care of Master Draco.”

“We already have a house-elf, and we don’t have enough work for him. Trust me, Lissy. Draco will be fine. You should go on holiday. Have some fun. And don’t worry about your family. I’ll look out for them.”

She sniffled pathetically but let go of Harry’s legs and allowed him to step away. “Lissy is trusting Harry Potter,” she said forlornly.

Harry gave her another consoling pat and Narcissa another smile, then apparated away, grateful to escape their doleful eyes.

Somehow, he had to get Draco over here to visit them. Soon.

*** *** ***

Kingsley’s wand still opened the door to the interrogation room, though he was not an Auror and had not been for some years. One of the perks of being Minister for Magic was that he could finesse these little details—keep his name on a roster, keep his magical signature on file where it had no business being—and maintain a certain autonomy in his movements. That was helpful when he didn’t want an escort. Or a witness.

His subject was already in the room, seated in the bare metal chair at the bare metal table, looking around with a sharp-eyed curiosity that was rare in these surroundings. Generally, civilians who found themselves in this room were nervous, defensive, even hostile, not curious. But the only sign of tension this one betrayed was the restless tapping of her fuchsia talons against the poison-green dragonhide bag she clutched in her lap.

Kingsley stepped through the door and shut it firmly behind him, ignoring the predatory smile that stretched her lips or the way her eyes glittered behind her wing-shaped glasses. Far bigger men than he had quailed before that look, but Kingsley was not shaken. He knew Rita Skeeter far too well to be afraid of her or fooled by her bravado. She was a snake and a bully but not a great intellect, and he had her by the—figurative—balls this time.

“My, my, the Minister for Magic himself! I’m honored!” she cooed, all corrosive sweetness.

“Good evening, Ms. Skeeter.” He crossed to the table and sat down.

“Call me Rita, please. There’s no need for such old friends to stand on ceremony.”

“Rita.” He gave her his most beguiling smile. “Thank you for coming.”

“Oh.” Her plucked, painted, pencil-thin brows rose precariously above the frames of her glasses. “Was my attendance voluntary?”

“No,” his smile widened, “but a little courtesy never hurts.”

Her smile twisted into a knowing smirk. “Always the gentleman. So tell me, Kingsley, what can this humble reporter do for you?”

“Give me the name of your source. The one who stole my memories from Aurelia Pauncefoot’s office.”

She laughed—or more accurately, cackled—her eyes glittering with malicious glee. “You know better than that, Minister. Rita Skeeter never betrays a source.”

“Then Rita Skeeter is going to prison for theft. It’s entirely up to her.”

“Theft? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Very well, if that’s how you want to play it.” He made a move to push back his chair. “I hope you find the cells down here comfortable because you’re going to be spending a lot of time in one.”

“You can’t arrest me for printing a story!” she snapped, all vestiges of humor gone. “That’s censorship!”

Kingsley paused, half out of his chair, and cast her an appalled look. “Censorship? Merlin, no! I wouldn’t dream of censoring the Press!” He settled back in the chair and leaned across the table toward her, saying earnestly, “No, my dear, I’m arresting you for receiving stolen goods, which is a criminal offense and one which will garner little sympathy from your publisher or your public. But regardless of their feelings in the matter, you _will_ face trial and probable prison time.”

“Ridiculous,” she sniffed, waving him away with a pink-clawed hand. “You have no proof.”

“I have your words, printed under your byline, proving that you viewed stolen memories.”

“Balderdash! I wrote a story, based on facts from a number of sources, and if you try to suppress it by arresting me, that _absolutely_ _is_ censorship!”

“I am not trying to suppress it. I am making no threats against _The Daily Prophet_ for publishing the story, though,” he temporized, “Aurors are searching their offices now for those memories, and I suppose that might be construed as a threat…”

Rita gave a sour crack of laughter. “Search all you like! You’re wasting your time!”

“I’m sure. But you see, my dear, I don’t need the actual memories because I have this.”

He pulled his wand from his sleeve and gave it a flick. A copy of today’s _Daily Prophet_ appeared with a pop, then settled on the table, folded to display Rita’s story. He slid it over to her.

“This is all the proof I need.” He tapped a paragraph. “This reference to the _Cruciatus_ curse used on Draco Malfoy and Dumbledore’s ruse to conceal it from the Ministry.”

“What of it?”

Kingsley couldn’t resist letting his triumph show in his smile when he purred, “I’m the only person still living who knows about it. Well, to be fair, Draco Malfoy knows, but I think we can discount him as a source.”

She blinked stupidly at him. “I don’t…”

“You don’t what, Rita? Believe me? Care? You’ll do both before long because I can stand up in front of the Wizengamot and testify—under Veritaserum, if necessary—that there is only one possible source for that piece of information. And I, my dear Rita, am not Harry Potter.”

His voice hardened.

“I am not vulnerable to your cruel and underhanded attacks on my sanity or probity. I am not susceptible to your peculiar brand of poisonous innuendo. I have not lived my life being shredded by your quill until the public doesn’t know whether I’m a deity or a deranged child. Nor am I so honorable and kind that I will stand there, head high, while you eviscerate me.”

He leaned forward, delivering each word with deadly precision.

“I. Will. Fight. Back.”

Rita flinched, but her face remained stubbornly set. “That story isn’t enough to convict me of anything. I could have gotten that piece of information in any number of ways.”

“Two, by my count. Either you stole the memories yourself or you bought them from the person who did. Both are crimes. Both will put you in Azkaban and end your career as a journalist.”

“There are other ways! I could’ve spoken to…”

She broke off, visibly fuming, and Kingsley raised a querying eyebrow at her.

“Yes?”

“Someone,” she finished lamely.

“Give me this someone’s name and I might believe that you took no part in the theft.”

“I won’t reveal a source.”

“That’s certainly your prerogative, but I have to say that I think you’re making a mistake.”

“I have a professional standard to maintain! If I start betraying my sources, I’m finished! Discredited! I’ll never get another decent story!”

Kingsley eyed her with some amusement. He was enjoying this far more than he should, and not just because it brought up memories of his days as an Auror. He relished making this woman squirm.

“Let me make this perfectly plain, Rita. Someone is going to prison for stealing those memories. If you don’t want to be the one, you have to give me a name.”

“ _You can’t prove I stole them!_ ”

“I can prove you bought them, and that’s enough for me.” He waited for a long minute, staring her down, then abruptly got to his feet. “Very well. A night in a cell may soften your resolve. Or not. I honestly don’t care.”

He was one step away from the door when she blurted out, “Prewett! Clive Prewett!” Kingsley halted and turned to face her. “He works for Aurelia Pauncefoot.”

He took a few steps back toward her. “I know who he is. You’re saying that Clive Prewett stole those memories from his boss and sold them to you?”

She glared helplessly at him, then collapsed back in her chair, shoulders slumping. “I assume he stole them. He told me that he could get hold of the evidence that had cleared Draco Malfoy. I told him I would pay for that, but only if it was genuine.”

“How did he know what evidence was used to clear Malfoy?”

She shrugged indifferently. “You’ll have to ask him that.”

“But he approached you with this offer. It was his idea.”

“Yes.” Her face twisted in a sneer. “I’d done business with him before. He knew I had a special interest in Potter and Malfoy, so he knew what bait to use.”

“All right. Is there anything else you want to tell me about the transaction?”

“Just that Prewett is a nasty piece of work. He’ll lie like a rug to gain an advantage and sell his own grandmother for a silver Sickle. So watch your goodies when you’re around that one!”

“And this is the source you’re so anxious to protect?”

“I’m anxious to protect my own reputation,” she snapped back. “I don’t give a rat’s arse for that tosser and I _certainly_ won’t go to Azkaban for him!”

Kingsley just nodded and turned for the door once more. “Thank you, Rita. Make yourself comfortable. I expect you’ll be here awhile.”

“Hang on a bloody minute…!”

But Kingsley did not hang on. He strode out the door, grinning widely, a bounce in his step. The news about Prewett was not good—Harry would never let him live it down—but at least he had a name. And that had been _so much fun!_

**_To be continued…_ **


	9. When the Fudge Hits the Fan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Thank you SO MUCH for your response to the last chapter! It felt good when I was writing it, and I'm delighted that it read well, too!
> 
> This next chapter moves very fast-a bit like a movie with lots of quick cuts and things happening simultaneously. So hold onto your hats and get ready for a rough ride.
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

****_The Quibbler_

**_CORNELIUS FUDGE LATEST VICTIM_ **

_Former Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge was found in the wee hours of the morning, wandering Diagon Alley in a state of confusion after apparently falling afoul of the so-called Memory Thief. According to witnesses, Fudge appeared to be lost and bewildered. He approached several shopkeepers and residents, asking for food, insisting that he didn’t know where he was or how he’d gotten there. He was wearing nothing but long, winter underwear and was bleeding from multiple wounds. Aurors were summoned and Fudge was taken to St. Mungo’s for assessment by healers._

_“Kept asking me for a chocolate bikkie,” one resident, who asked to remain anonymous, said. “Poor dear was that confused! Called me Mum, then asked me my name!”…_

_…Fudge was Minister for Magic during the rise of Lord Voldemort in the run-up to the Second Wizard War. He was forced out of office in disgrace, after his refusal to believe that Voldemort had returned gave the Dark Lord time to rebuild his army in secret…_

* * *

_The Daily Prophet_

**_BELOVED FORMER MINISTER FALLS PREY TO MEMORY THIEF_ **

_Wizarding London was shocked and enraged today by the news that Cornelius Fudge, one of the most beloved figures in our world, has been attacked and brutalized, left wandering Diagon Alley in a pitiable state, his mind all but wiped…_

_…Magical Beings from Inverness to Bournemouth are demanding action on the part of the Ministry to stop these hideous attacks. Spontaneous demonstrations are popping up all over London and in key cities throughout the UK, as frightened witches and wizards band together to make their voices heard…_

_…Cornelius Fudge, though once forced to resign from his post as Minister for Magic and branded an incompetent, has in the years since the war become a symbol of a kinder, more optimistic time. The war, the troubled aftermath, the years of confusion and harsh reforms, have all left their mark on our world. Many now look back on Fudge’s regime as the calm before the storm, the Golden Years…_

* * *

The silence over the breakfast table was thick as marmalade. Harry toyed with his eggs, watching Draco do the same with a slice of bacon, wondering how to break it. Draco had barely said two words to him since he’d recounted the conversation with Narcissa yesterday, and while his manner wasn’t hostile, it was decidedly cool. He’d slept the night at Harry’s side without touching him, bathed without asking Harry to join him, and was now eating without looking up from his plate. He’d paid more attention to Abraxas than to Harry, when he’d ordered the animal not to make a nest out of his favorite leggings.

It was intolerable. Harry refused to be eclipsed in his husband’s affections by his own _cat_. The problem was that he didn’t know precisely what he’d done.

There was only one thing for it. He had to pull up his Big Boy Gryffindor pants, summon his courage, and poke the dragon.

He swallowed a bite of grilled tomato—it was rude to talk with your mouth full, after all, and he’d only antagonize Draco by forgetting it—and said, loudly, “I did not bully your mother into admitting what she’d done.”

Draco looked up from his plate, scowling. “Right. She just blurted it out over tea and scones.”

Well, sarcasm was better than silence.

“Pretty much.”

Draco’s mouth twisted into a sneer. “I can hear it now. ‘How lovely to see you, Harry. Care for a biscuit? Oh and, in case you were wondering, I’m the one who mind-reamed Phineas Boggs.’ Yes, that’s just my mother’s style.”

He returned to contemplating his bacon, jabbing angrily at it with his fork.

“She was trying to help,” Harry retorted, giving him a wounded look. “She knew we were wrong about the Memory Thief using Legilimency, and she didn’t want us wasting our time chasing false leads. That’s all there was to it.”

“And you never once accused her of being the Thief!” Draco countered, his eyes on Harry once more. “You never told her you’d _understand_ why she wanted to punish those men!”

“No,” Harry said stubbornly, “I didn’t.” He crossed his arms and fixed a challenging glare on his surly husband. “If you don’t believe me, send her an Owl and ask her!”

“I don’t want to send an Owl.” Draco stabbed his bacon so hard that Harry expected to hear it whimper. “I don’t want a fucking letter.”

Suddenly, the light dawned. Harry smiled softly at his bent head and hunched shoulders. “You’re not angry about her confession at all.”

“Yes, I bloody well am.”

“You’re angry that I didn’t take you with me,” Harry went on, blithely ignoring his interruption. “You miss her and you’re in a strop because I got to see her and you didn’t.”

Furious grey eyes lifted to meet his, but Harry wasn’t fooled this time. He knew his dragon wasn’t angry at _him._ Not really.

“I’m _in a strop_ , as you so elegantly put it, because my mother is all alone in that fucking cottage, practically a prisoner, driving herself mad over things that happened to me years ago that she can’t possibly fix, and _I can’t help her!_ ” He jabbed his fork at Harry to underscore his words. “ _You_ get to go see her! _You_ get to pop over to France any time you like for a spot of interrogation and bullying—yes, Potter, you _did_ bully her, so stop trying to deny it! But _I_ can’t even sit down to tea with my own mother because I have to cower inside your wards and wait for the Aurors to come arrest me! I might as well be a fucking ferret! I might as well be your fucking _pet_ for all the control I have over my _own fucking life!_ And it’s my mother who’s suffering for it!”

Harry eyed him steadily, waiting for more. When it didn’t come, he asked, quietly, “So, is any of this my fault?”

“Yes. No.” Draco scowled still more heavily, gaze fixed stubbornly on his plate to avoid Harry’s pleading eyes. “I don’t know.”

“I’m sorry that you feel like my pet.” It hurt him even to say the word. “I never meant to treat you that way.”

Some of his pain must have leaked into his voice because Draco looked up, startled, his anger giving way to uncertainty. “No, Harry, I didn’t mean…”

A sudden sparking in the wards struck Harry like a Stinging hex, dragging a “ _Bloody hell!_ ” out of him.

Draco, not having felt the wards, flinched and recoiled from Harry’s anger.

“It’s the wards,” Harry hurried to explain. “Someone’s coming through the floo.”

Draco’s shoulders unkinked just in time to tighten again when they both heard Ron shouting, “ _Oi! Harry!_ ”

With a defeated sigh, Harry pushed himself out of his chair and moved over to Draco. He couldn’t let this conversation end there—with hurt and misunderstanding—no matter how urgent Ron’s business was. Bending over his husband, he caught his head between his hands and kissed him soundly. Their lips were still pressed together when Ron burst into the room.

“Sorry to interrupt your… Oh, bugger! Can’t you two keep your hands off each other for two fucking minutes?”

“Shut it, Ron,” Harry ordered, his hands still clasping Draco’s head and his mouth only a finger’s breadth from the other man’s. Then, more privately, he said, “I know you didn’t mean it like that. And you know I never meant to take control of your life.”

Draco nodded.

“I’ll clear this up, I promise. Then you can have tea with your mother every day, if you like. Fuck. You can run naked through Diagon Alley with your arse on fire, if that’s what boosts your broom.”

Draco nodded again, the beginnings of a smile lifting one corner of his mouth.

“Now I have to see what’s got up Ron’s nose.”

“Hey! I’m right here!”

Harry shot him a sour look. “I’m painfully aware of that.” Reluctantly letting go of Draco, he stepped away from the table to confront his twitching, nearly-frantic partner. “The question is, _why_ are you here?”

“I need you to come with me, mate.”

“Where?”

“HQ! We’ve got a situation…”

“Let Robards handle it,” Harry scoffed. “He suspended me, so it’s his bloody problem!”

“He _is_ the problem!” Ron shot back. “The man’s in a royal snit, threatening all kinds of mayhem if you don’t get your arse into his office! And the rest of the Force is running around like headless pixies, too frightened to say boo…”

“Don’t go,” Draco said sharply. “It’s a trap.”

“Robards can’t hurt me,” Harry assured him.

“He can _arrest_ you,” Ron cut in, “and that’s what he says he’ll do, if you aren’t in his office in the next ten minutes!”

“Why? What possible reason could he have? _What the fuck is going on?!_ ”

Ron blinked at him in disbelief. “You don’t know?”

“How could we know, since you haven’t told us?” Harry countered.

“You haven’t read today’s _Prophet?_ ”

Harry groaned. “When will you get it through your thick skull that I _never_ read the bloody _Prophet?!_ ”

“The Memory Thief struck again last night. He got Cornelius Fudge.”

“ _WHAT?!_ ” Harry and Draco chorused together.

“Fudge. He was found wandering around Diagon Alley in his long underwear, snivelling and calling for his mummy.”

“ _Holy fuck_ ,” Harry breathed.

“Yeah. It’s today’s headline. And it’s sent the whole bloody wizarding world barmy. You’d think they actually liked and respected the berk, the way they’re carrying on.”

“And Robards thinks I had something to do with it?”

“I don’t know what he thinks, mate, only that he wants you in his office _now_ , and he’ll arrest you for interfering with an investigation if you don’t show.”

“Holy fuck,” he said again, with a shake of his head.

“Don’t go, Harry,” Draco said more urgently. “I mean it.”

“I have to, if only to find out what’s going on in Robards’ head.”

“Hurry up, then,” Ron urged, turning for the door. “Don’t bother with your uniform. You’re better off without it. And I’d disguise your face, if I were you!”

“Why?”

“Just trust me, mate. You don’t want to be Harry Bloody Potter today.”

Harry shrugged and followed him to the doorway. Then he paused, just inside it, to look back at Draco. Their eyes locked. Harry promptly thought of at least a dozen things he wanted to say before he careened off toward another crisis, but he only had time for one.

“Fudge. Is he…?”

Draco nodded before he could finish, telling him what he needed to know. Harry nodded in return to signal his understanding. Then he turned to leave with his heart down in his boots.

“Be careful, Harry.”

“I will.”

* * *

Harry understood why Ron had warned him not to show up wearing Harry Potter’s face the instant he flooed into the Ministry. The Atrium was packed with people, all milling about, shouting slogans, waving signs, and waylaying any Ministry official unwary enough venture among them. A group of six or seven pounced on Harry the instant he spun into view, tugged him out of the green flames, and jostled him forward into the general mob.

A wizard wearing a Visitor’s badge that read ‘Protestor’ noticed Harry’s Muggle clothing and took him for a sympathizer. He grabbed Harry’s arm, shook it, and bellowed in his ear, “Get yourself a sign, mate! There’s a stack by the fountain!”

His own sign said **SAVE OUR MEMORIES** in purple block letters. A drawing beneath this legend showed two stick figures—one pointing a wand at the other and firing a jet of power that made his victim jerk and flail pathetically.

Harry nodded at the stranger and tried to slide away, only to find himself nearly trampling a witch who clutched a clumsily-lettered sign reading **ARREST THE WHORE!** She was screaming at full volume, “ _Get the filth off our streets! Arrest Malfoy! Arrest the murdering whore!_ ”

Harry shuddered and looked around for some avenue of escape. There was none, only a press of bodies and howling voices, punctuated by signs. Signs everywhere, each worse than the last.

**JUSTICE FOR FUDGE!**

**MINISTRY BOUGHT WITH MALFOY GOLD**

**POTTER AND MALFOY—HONEYMOON IN AZKABAN**

**MALFOY STILL WHORING FOR YOU-KNOW-WHO**

**SAVE OUR MEMORIES, SAVE OUR WORLD! STOP MALFOY!**

A hand closed on Harry’s arm, and he jerked around, instinctively reaching for his wand but found himself looking into Ron’s scowling face. The other man looked as if he wanted to sick up all over the screaming witch. Instead, he grabbed Harry’s arm and pulled him into the crowd. Harry followed, letting Ron pilot him toward the lifts at the far end of the room.

The rage brewing in the mob seemed to heat up the farther they went, rising to a full boil just at the point where Eric Munch stood as the last line of defense for the Ministry proper. He had left his usual place behind the security stand and planted himself in front of the gates with his wand in his hand to keep back the tide of chaos. The loudest, most obstreperous of the demonstrators were gathered round him, chanting, waving signs, trying to rattle him and receiving only a grim smile in response.

Eric Munch was not to be intimidated.

Ron pushed his way through the heart of the mob, straight up to Eric. The security wizard gave Harry a suspicious glare that dissolved into wide-eyed wonder when Ron whispered something in his ear. He motioned the two Aurors through the gate, opening it just wide enough for them to slip through sideways, then slamming it again and nearly taking the arm off a protestor who reached to stop him.

Safely on the far side of the gates, Ron paused to ask, “Do you need help down here, Eric?”

“With this lot? _Pfft!_ ” He winked at Ron and grinned. “Don’t you bother your head about me, Mr. Weasley!”

“Send up a flare, if things get out of hand.”

“Right you are, sir.”

They left him barking a warning at one of the protestors, unfazed by the havoc all around him. In the relative quiet of the lift, Harry removed his disguise, then he sagged against a wall, limp with shock.

“Is all that really for Fudge?”

“I doubt it,” Ron snorted. “More like he’s a handy excuse.”

“They’re all so sure it’s Draco! Did you see those signs?”

“You can thank Rita Skeeter and the bloody _Prophet_ for that.”

Harry let his head fall back and closed his eyes. “What a fucking nightmare.”

The lift eased to a stop. A cool feminine voice announced the Second level. Harry and Ron stepped out of the car and strode away before she had finished listing all the departments to be found there.

They strode through the corridors, ignoring the many conversations that broke off at Harry’s arrival and the many pairs of eyes that followed his progress. The mood here was not as clamorous as in the Atrium, but it was every bit as tense. No one appeared to be working. Everyone appeared to be discussing the fate of Cornelius Fudge and the near-riot brewing downstairs. But no one—oddly enough—seemed inclined to go down and defuse the situation.

“Pleased with yourself, Potter?”

Harry checked his stride and turned to find the source of the snarled question. It was Rushworth, one of the older Aurors who rarely spoke to him. He was a short, broad cinderblock of a man with overhanging brows and dull, piggy eyes. Right now, those eyes were unusually bright with malice.

“Is this what you and your band of idiots wanted from the start?” Rushworth went on, before Harry had a chance to respond. “To totally discredit the department? Throw us to the mob? Or are you just thinking with your dick?”

Harry opened his mouth to speak, but Ron grabbed his arm and dragged him unceremoniously into their office, muttering, “He’s a prick. Ignore him.”

“I hope Malfoy’s arse is worth it!” Rushworth growled, just as Ron slammed the door in his face.

“What are you doing?” Harry protested. “I have to report to Robards.”

“Not ’til you pull yourself together, mate. You look like you've been _Confunded_.”

“I feel like I’ve been _Confunded_.” Trying to shake off his bewilderment, Harry added, “You might have warned me about that scrum downstairs.”

“You wouldn’t have believed me.”

“Bloody hell, I _still_ don’t believe it. And what’s up with Rushworth? I can’t even remember the last time he spoke to me, and he comes out with _this?_ ”

“What does it matter? He’s an antiquated clot who should’ve packed it in years ago. Come on, Harry, get your head out of your arse and figure out what you’re going to say to Robards!”

“I won’t know that ’til I hear what _he_ has to say.” Ron opened his mouth to protest, but Harry waved him to silence. “Relax. I always do better when I improvise. Just give me a minute to…”

A sharp knock sounded on the door, then it opened to show Neville’s face peering worriedly at them.

“Hey, Harry.”

“Hey, Nev. I’m sorry, but I don’t…”

“This’ll just take a minute.” Neville slipped into the room and shut the door. “Sorry. I know you’re due in Robards’ office, but you really have to hear this first.”

Looking into his earnest face, Harry made a snap decision not to give a fuck about fucking Robards. He was a prick and pillock and not worth the energy Harry was wasting on him. Neville, on the other hand, was his friend and Harry wasn’t about to brush him off.

“Robards can wait,” he said. “What’s up?”

“You need to know that Warwick has put an illegal Trace on Malfoy’s wand.”

There was a beat of stunned silence, then…

“He’s what?” Harry demanded blankly.

Ron just goggled at Neville.

“I think he must’ve done it when he had Malfoy downstairs. That’s the only time he had access to his wand.”

“He’s… He’s Tracing Draco’s wand,” Harry repeated. “Without authorization from the Wizengamot.”

He collapsed into the nearest chair and stared at Neville, dumbfounded.

“He’s risking his entire investigation, risking his _job_ if he’s caught, to arrest a man _who hasn’t done anything?_ ”

“Yeah,” Neville said glumly, “and Robards knows about it.”

“ _Fuck!_ ” Harry—for the second time in two minutes—let his head fall back and his eyes fall closed, surrendering to utter disbelief, too gobsmacked even to be angry. “Has Robards lost his mind?”

“I don’t know about him, but I’m sure Warwick has. I overheard them talking, and I don’t mind saying, he gave me the shudders!”

Harry cracked his eyes open to frown at Neville. “Is that how you found out about the Trace?”

“Yeah. It was yesterday. I wanted to tell you straight off, but I didn’t know how to reach you and Ron wasn’t here, so I… well…”

“Don't worry about it.” He waved away Neville’s apology and straightened up in his chair. “Draco’s safe at home where Warwick can’t get to him, Trace or no Trace, and I’ll make sure he stays there.”

“So, what happens next?”

It was a good question. Harry was still off-balance, but his mind was starting to work again, disbelief giving way to a simmering rage that helped him focus. Helped him think. And all his thinking led him back to the same place.

The Ministry was now hostile territory.

Assuming his most brisk, authoritative tone, he said, “With Robards working against us, we have to assume that the rest of the department is as well, so we’re completely out in the cold.” He paused and shot a hopeful look at his two friends. “If it is still _we_ , that is. If you’re still with me.”

“You know we are, mate,” Ron assured him, while Neville nodded eagerly.

He grinned in relief. “Right, then it’s on us to find the Memory Thief, and we have to do it without letting anyone on the inside know what we’re up to. You two can still move around the Ministry freely, but I’m suspended and can’t show my face here without attracting attention…”

“Speaking of which,” Ron cut in, “shouldn’t you get to Robards’ office before he comes looking for you?”

“Yeah.” Harry got to his feet and automatically patted his pocket to make sure his wand was still there. “Do me a favor, Ron?”

“Name it.”

“Warn Draco about the Trace?”

“You don’t think he’ll leave the cottage, do you?”

“No, but just in case things go tits-up with Robards, I want him to know what kind of danger he’s in.”

Ron nodded soberly. “I’m on it.”

“Thanks.” Harry pulled his shoulders back and gave his lumpy, misshapen Weasley jumper a fierce tug to straighten it. “Right. I’m off to see The Pillock. Wish me luck.”

* * *

Draco couldn’t stomach any more of his breakfast. He left it congealing on the kitchen table and prowled the cottage like a caged beast, going from room to room, up and down the stairs, looking for something he couldn’t name and not stopping anywhere long enough to find it. He could feel the walls closing in on him again, but it wasn’t claustrophobia that drove him. No. He wasn’t suffocating, he was angry. Frustrated. _Frightened._

He was still furious with Harry for leaving him behind yesterday and with himself for giving in so easily.

He was deeply frustrated that he’d missed the chance to be with his mother, to talk to her about the things she had seen in Phineas Boggs’ mind, to reassure her that he was moving past it. Healing. Learning to live with the pain. She had to know that he was not that broken boy anymore. That he didn’t need her suffering to make it right.

And he was frightened—so very frightened—that he might be too late.

At their last meeting, he had been so hurt and angry that he’d not stopped to think. He had lashed out at her, wounded her with the truth, made her see things she did not want to see, then left her alone with all that ugliness. Now she was finishing the job for him, punishing herself for failing him. What she’d done to Phineas must have been exquisite torture for her. Far more than for Phineas himself. Even Goyle, for all his apparent remorse, could not have suffered one tenth as much as she had when she forced them both to watch an old family friend fuck her son bloody on the library floor.

But what good did it do, this hellish peep-show? She couldn’t go back and change anything. She couldn’t undo the damage or erase the scars. All she could do was watch it happen all over again and hurt with him. Which left them both battered and weeping and ashamed.

It was idiotic. Self-defeating.

It was his own fucking fault.

All he’d needed to do was tell her that he didn’t blame her, that he wasn’t angry with her, that he believed her when she said she didn’t know. That’s all it would have taken to ease her conscience. Instead, he had deliberately wounded her in the worst possible way, destroying her belief in her husband and herself with one blow. Then he had showed her what her adored son really was—a weak, cowardly, fucked-out thing who would rather suck an infinite amount of cock than stand up and take his punishment. He had AK-ed her entire life in one minute and told her that she deserved it.

Now he was sitting in this nice, warm cottage, locked up behind the wizarding world’s most impenetrable wards, waiting for the Savior to save him. _Again_. Taking the coward’s way out—the _Malfoy’s_ way out—while his mother punished herself for things she couldn’t possibly help.

He came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the kitchen, his body fairly vibrating with the effort of holding himself still, looking up and around as if he could see through the walls.

Were they still out there, all those scavengers, watching and waiting? Would they know if he left? Follow him? Attack him? Arrest him? Was Harry being cautious or just paranoid when he refused to take Draco with him to Narcissa’s cottage? What could they do to her, or to him, if he dared to visit his own mother?

His gaze dropped to the hearth and the ghostly-pale cat that sat in front of it, tail wrapped around its paws. They stared at each other—grey eyes locked to grey—until Draco blinked.

“Fuck it!” he blurted out.

Then he spun on his heel and bolted from the room.

* * *

“Shut the door, Potter.”

Harry shut the door, then crossed to stand in front of Robards’ desk. He unconsciously struck an arrogant pose—arms crossed, head up, mouth set in a hard line. Any lingering respect he might have felt for this man had evaporated when he heard Neville’s news. All that was left now was anger and disdain. And since he was probably about to be sacked, anyway, he didn’t bother to hide it.

Robards did not offer him a chair, just glared up at him from his own place behind the desk, jaws working as if he were chewing his words to pulp before letting them out of his mouth.

“This has officially gone too far.”

Harry’s brows rose and a smirk twitched at his lips. “How do you mean, sir?”

“I mean, Cornelius Fudge is in St. Mungo’s and we have a bloody riot on our hands!”

“Oh. I thought maybe you were referring to my suspension and Warwick’s attempts to frame my husband for murder.”

A thunderous scowl darkened Robards’ face. He opened his mouth to bark a retort, then thought better of it and made a visible effort to rein in his temper.

When he could master his voice, he said, “Do us both a favor and work with me. Help me solve this case.” Harry just cocked his head, offering no comment. Robards’ lips tightened. “Tell me about Malfoy’s connection to Fudge.”

“He has none, as far as I’m aware.”

Harry devoutly hoped that Robards couldn’t see the pulse jumping in his throat.

The older man gave a grunt of disgust, then leaned back and sighed. “I’m trying to help you, Potter. I don’t want my most respected Auror disgraced and imprisoned, my department dragged through the mud, the Ministry burned down by an angry mob! I want justice done.”

“No, you want another Malfoy behind bars.”

“Only if he’s guilty.”

“Well, that’s something we agree on.”

“The problem is that I can’t determine if he’s guilty because you won’t tell me the truth. You’re sheltering him at the expense of our investigation, and that only leads me to believe that you’re _both_ guilty.”

“I don’t suppose it’s occurred to you that we’re both innocent?”

“I’d like to believe that.”

“Would you?” Harry eyed his superior coldly. “Is that why you let Warwick off his leash?”

Dull, angry color stained Robards’ cheeks and his eyes flashed. “You’re treading on very thin ice, Mr. Potter.”

“I’ve been there before. Turns out I’m a good swimmer.”

“ _You bloody little_ …” Robards began, coming half out of his chair, only to once again rein himself in. Dropping back into his seat and sucking in a calming breath, he tried again. “Warwick is convinced that Malfoy is behind these attacks. I’m not so sure. I think he’s too visible, too recognizable to move around without drawing attention to himself. And let’s face it, the little prick was never much of a wizard, was he? Just another pureblood ponce who got by on his name and his fortune, until he didn’t have either. You, on the other hand…”

He smirked. “You’re the Chosen One. The most powerful wizard of our age. Born to slay the Dark Lord. Killing another wizard without using your wand would be child’s play for you, wouldn’t it?”

Harry laughed out loud at that. “Seriously? You think _I’m_ the Memory Thief?”

“I’m glad you find it so amusing.”

“I find it fucking ridiculous! But at least, if you’re chasing me, you’ll leave Draco alone.”

“Don’t worry. We have the manpower to chase both of you.”

“Why don’t you just arrest me and get it over with?” Harry held out his hands, wrists together. “I won’t put up a fight.”

Of course, Robards wouldn’t do it. He couldn’t. He didn’t have the bollocks to arrest the Hero of the Wizarding World on trumped-up charges. And Harry was almost as adept at countering false accusations as he was at surviving Killing Curses. He’d certainly had enough practice over the years!

“If I had the proof, you’d already be in a cell,” Robards said sourly.

“That’s what I thought.”

After a moment of seething silence, Harry abruptly pulled out the nearest chair and dropped into it. He slumped back, elbows propped on the arms of the chair, legs sprawled negligently, declaring his complete indifference to Robards’ threats with every line of his body. His eyes gleamed as they studied the other man’s sullen face.

“So, do you really think I’m the Memory Thief, or were you just trying to frighten me into turning on Draco?”

“It’s more likely that you are than Malfoy.”

“Why does it have to be either of us?”

“Because he’s the key. Warwick’s right about that. And you’re working so bloody hard to stop us from finding the connection that I can’t help but wonder why.” He shot Harry a glowering look from beneath his brows. “I know you think that you and your acolytes are Merlin’s Gift to Law Enforcement and the rest of us are just bumbling fools, tripping over our own feet, but I was catching Dark wizards while you were still learning which end of your wand spat sparks.”

Harry grinned at the very rude image this conjured. “I’m aware of that. Sir.”

Robards snorted at the belated courtesy. “And I’m not a total, fucking imbecile. I know you’ve put your loyalty to Malfoy ahead of your loyalty to this department, your job, the case, everything. And it’s going to cost you _everything_ , Potter. Mark my words.”

“Only if Warwick is right and Draco is guilty. But you see,” Harry smiled and pushed himself to his feet, “he isn’t. So that makes Warwick the fucking imbecile and me the one who’s looking for justice. Think about that, when he asks you to break another law for him. Think about what it’ll do to your precious department when it all comes out, Draco is proven innocent, I’m the hero _again,_ and Warwick is exposed as the corrupt, piece-of-shit, pathetic excuse for an Auror that he is.”

He turned to leave, but paused in the doorway to say, “Think about it now, because by then, it’ll be too late to switch sides.”

* * *

Ron was disheveled, disgruntled, and thoroughly fed up with Harry’s security measures by the time he reached the cottage. First he had been forced to run the gauntlet of protestors in the Atrium to reach a floo. Then Kreacher had waylaid him the moment he stepped out of the fire in Grimmauld Place, demanding information and reassurance. The poor old elf was in such a state, having heard nothing from either Harry or Draco in days, that Ron actually felt bad for him as he apparated away. Not bad enough to hang around, chatting, but still…

Finally, with his robes pulled every which way and his temper frayed to tatters, he landed on the rug in front of the sitting room hearth.

“Ferret?” he called, the moment his feet touched down. “It’s Weasel! Where are you, mate?”

He got no answer. A swift glance around the room told him that it was empty and showed no signs of recent habitation. The hearth was cold, the lamps unlit, the settee free of books and blankets.

“Ferret!” Ron bellowed at full, window-rattling volume.

Still no answer.

With a muttered curse, he strode out of the room and down the stairs toward the kitchen, stopping to peer into the parlor and Harry’s office on his way. The kitchen, too, was empty, but here he found the remains of two breakfasts still on the table. They were cold and disgusting, bacon grease hardened into a rind on the plates.

Ron stared at them, a frown gathering on his brow, then abruptly pointed his wand at the ceiling and muttered, “ _Homenum revelio._ ”

Nothing happened.

“Oh, bloody hell, Ferret,” he groaned. “What have you _done?_ ”

* * *

His first stop was a public apparition point in Dover that he remembered from his childhood. It was located behind a Muggle hotel near the famous white cliffs. He made it without incident and, his confidence bolstered, apparated away again before anyone took notice of him.

His second stop was Bayonne. There he had to pause and catch his breath. Apparition was draining, especially when he was so out of practice, and he did not have the stamina for repeated jumps. But there were two wizards lounging inside the Concealment spells that enclosed the apparition point, watching everyone who came through, and he didn’t like the look of them. So he gave himself only a moment or two before moving on, apparating to the first place he could think of—the lane just outside the village where his father was buried.

It was cold here. Completely isolated. And, in some indefinable way, more threatening than the apparition point with the two suspicious wizards. It occurred to Draco, as he stood freezing in the lane, that if he were ambushed now, no one would ever know. He would simply disappear. Cease to exist.

A shudder went through him, and he closed his eyes to concentrate on his final destination. Clutching tightly to his wand, he turned and vanished.

As he stepped out of the crushing darkness once more, he blinked his eyes open to find himself in his mother’s parlor. The room was exactly as he remembered it—artfully decorated, a touch too formal for comfort, and so like his mother that it made his chest ache with longing. A fire burned merrily on the hearth, but no candles were lit. No tea waited on the table. No elf greeted him with wails and tears of delight.

“Mother?” he called.

“Draco?!” Footsteps sounded behind him and he turned to see his mother come rushing into the room, a smile blossoming on her face. “Draco! My darling! What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to t—”

A sudden, deafening chorus of _cracks_ split the air and cut him off in mid-word. Narcissa staggered back, a hand coming up to her throat, as a ring of figures appeared around Draco. There were at least six of them, all in Auror’s robes with wands in their hands. And all those wands were pointed at him.

“ _STUPEFY!_ ” six voices bellowed in unison.

In the split second of consciousness left to him, Draco heard his mother scream. Then the magic hit him with the force of a speeding train, slamming him into darkness.

* * *

The Patronus dropped down through the ceiling, a silvery blur, to land at Harry’s feet just as he was stepping out of Robards’ office. He backpedaled and heard Robards mutter a curse. The mist swirled and solidified, forming a large swan that lifted its head on a long, graceful neck to eye Harry. It spoke in Narcissa Malfoy’s voice.

“ _Draco taken by Aurors! Come at once!_ ”

Harry gaped at it, as stupefied as if the Patronus had hit him with a Stunning spell, until the creature wavered, thinned and vanished. His eyes remained glued to the spot where it had stood for another beat, then he heard a more familiar voice calling him.

“Harry! _Harry!_ ”

He looked up to see Ron sprinting down the hallway toward him, wand in his hand, face white with panic.

“Was that a Patronus?!” Ron called. “Who…?”

Harry turned away from him without answering to fix his eyes on Robards. A tremor of pure rage went through him. Magic seethed beneath his skin, flared in his eyes and glowed golden around his hands. He unconsciously clenched his fists to hold it back, but a scroll on the Head Auror’s desk began to smoke. Neither man spared it a glance.

His voice low and deadly, Harry asked, “What have you done?”

Robards set his jaw, refusing to back down from the power now hanging visibly in the air around the other man. “Taken a brutal criminal into custody. Stopped a reign of terror.”

Harry started toward Robards. His hands came up, fingers crooked into claws. “You _filthy son of a_ …”

“Harry, _no!_ ” Ron grabbed his arm, halting him, spinning him around to catch his blazing eyes. “ _Stop!_ ”

Harry stopped. Blinked at him. Lowered his hands and pressed them flat against his thighs. The denim of his jeans began to blacken. “He arrested Draco.”

“Yeah.” Ron let go of Harry to rub a hand over his face, trying to scrub away an unpleasant image. “He left the… he left, and I figured it wouldn’t take them long to find him.”

Rounding on Robards again, Harry snarled, “Where is he?! Where have they taken him?!”

“Where you and your loyal minions can’t reach him.” Robards snapped. “I won’t risk a repeat performance of Weasley’s dramatic rescue.”

“I demand to see him!” Robards just snorted and rolled his eyes. “You can’t keep me away! I’m his spouse and I have a right to see him!”

“When he’s arrested and formally charged. Until then, he’s being held for questioning with no visitors allowed. You know the drill, Potter.”

“If you let Warwick hurt him…” Harry began, starting for Robards once more, his magic sparking dangerously.

“No!” Ron cried, jerking him back. “Don’t do it, mate!”

“I warned you!” Harry snarled at Robards, struggling to pull free of Ron’s grip. “I gave you a chance! Now I’m going to _destroy you!_ ”

“ _You’re not helping!_ ” Ron wailed.

“Get him out of here, Weasley,” Robards growled, “before I put him in a cell with his precious husband!”

Ron finally managed to muscle Harry out the door, but at that, he turned to spit over his shoulder, “He’s here because you ordered him to come! The entire fucking department heard it! So either he walks away free, or I go to Shacklebolt and tell him that you ambushed your own man, with about a dozen witnesses to back up me up! And I’ll tell him about the illegal Trace on Malfoy’s wand, while I’m at it!”

Robards swore and waved his wand, slamming the door in Ron’s face. The two young Aurors found themselves out in the hallway, surrounded by open office doors and gawping faces. No one moved. No one dared to approach, until Neville broke the stasis that held them all and hurried over.

“What’s happened?” he asked in a near-whisper.

“They got Malfoy,” Ron answered, not bothering to lower his voice or mask the disgust in it.

“Oh, Merlin!” Neville groaned.

“Harry, you have to get the fuck out of here. Nev and I will go down to the cells and…”

“He’s not in the cells!” Harry snapped. “You heard Robards. They’ve got him hidden where we can’t reach him.”

“Where else could they take him?” Neville asked in bewilderment.

Harry shot him a furious look. “One guess.”

Neville stared at him, gears visibly turning in his head, then rolled his eyes up to the ceiling and groaned, again, “ _Merlin!_ ”

“Fuck,” Ron breathed at the same time. “Fucking Azkaban.”

Harry didn’t bother to confirm it. Detaching himself from Ron’s grip, he said, “I have to get to Narcissa Malfoy. You two find out what you can and meet me at Ron’s later. And watch your backs. Remember, this is enemy territory.”

“Don’t worry about us, mate.” Ron clapped him on the shoulder in sympathy. “You’re the one who has to face Malfoy’s mum! She makes The Pillock look like a pussycat!”

He sent a Patronus ahead to warn Narcissa of his coming, then apparated straight from Grimmauld Place to her cottage. It was a very long jump, requiring a huge amount of power, but Harry did it without a blink. Narcissa was waiting for him. She pounced the instant he appeared, coming at him in a flurry of sky-blue robes, her voice shrill with panic.

“So you finally decided to put in an appearance?! The great Harry Potter! Can’t be bothered to come when his own husband is arrested!”

“I came as soon as…”

She didn’t let him finish. Gave no sign that she’d even heard him speak.

“They took him! Aurors!” She flung out a hand to point at the rug where Harry stood. “They Stunned him, right here in front of me, and dragged him away!”

“I know. I…”

“ _You know?!_ ” She cut him off by giving him a stinging slap that snapped his head to one side. “You _let them!_ You promised to protect him, and then you _let them take him!_ ”

“Narcissa…” She slapped him again, harder still. He spluttered, shook it off, and protested, “Calm down!”

“ _I will not calm down! I want my son back!_ ” She drew back her hand to strike him yet again, but Harry caught her wrist and wrenched her arm down. “ _I trusted you! I trusted you to protect him!_ ”

“I’m sorry.” He thought of telling her that Draco had left the cottage and the protection of the wards without his knowledge—that he had willfully put himself in danger—but decided against it. There was no point in fanning the flames of her fury.

Instead, he pulled her into his arms and gathered her up against his chest, murmuring, “I know and I’m sorry. Shh.”

It was almost like holding Draco—the same slender bones and lithe strength—but also completely wrong. When she pressed her face into his shoulder, trembling with rage and pain, he thought his heart would crack with the familiarity of it. Then he remembered that it was Narcissa’s face, not Draco’s.

The wrong face. The wrong pain. The wrong body in his arms.

“Shh,” he whispered again, stroking her back, pushing aside the ache of longing in him for the man who wasn’t there. “Just breathe.”

Narcissa remained rigid in his arms, alternately clinging to him and lashing out with clenched fists, but making no real attempt to push him away. Harry held her tightly. Let her pound any part of him she could reach. Waited for the storm to blow itself out. When she finally softened against him and started talking into his shoulder in a suspiciously damp voice, he knew they were through the worst of it.

“I can’t lose him again, Harry, not after so many years without him. I can’t let him disappear into that hideous place.”

Harry didn’t know what to say to this, so he just hummed soothingly and patted her shoulder.

“He’ll never survive Azkaban. It killed his father. It’ll do the same to him, I know it! I have to get him out before it breaks him the way it did Lucius!”

“I won’t let that happen. I’ll get him out, I promise.”

“No.” Abruptly pushing herself out of his arms, she looked up at Harry with fierce, determined, blue eyes. “This is my responsibility. I know what I have to do.”

Harry just frowned at her in confusion.

She tilted her chin up, jaw set mulishly. “They want a Malfoy to blame for the Memory Thief attacks, so I’ll give them one.”

“What?”

“I should have acted as soon as I realized that Draco was in danger. It’s my fault it went this far.”

“Are… are you saying…?”

“I’m saying that I can save Draco by confessing to the crimes myself.”

“Only if you actually _committed them_. Is that what you’re telling me? That you’re the Memory Thief?”

“Certainly not, but that doesn’t matter. I trust you’ll find the real Thief eventually, and in the meantime, I’m no stranger to Azkaban. I know I can survive it. Draco, on the other hand…”

“Narcissa, _no_. This is not the way to help him! Confessing to crimes you didn’t commit will only make things worse!”

“They can’t possibly get worse than this.”

“They can and they will.” He caught her by the shoulders, gave her a little shake. “Listen. The Aurors in charge of the investigation _want_ Draco to be guilty. They will do everything in their power to prove that he is, including distort the truth and manufacture or destroy evidence. If they catch you in a lie—which they will—they’ll take that as further proof that he’s guilty! That his mother knows it and is so desperate that she’ll sacrifice herself to save him!”

“They won’t catch me in the lie.”

“The Unmentionables know that you haven’t left this cottage.”

“I’ll tell them that my sister switched places with me, and they won’t have any way to disprove it.”

“Until Andromeda tells them the truth.”

“She won’t.”

“Even if the alternative is going to prison for you and leaving Teddy with no one to care for him?”

He eyed her intently, reading the indecision and desperation in her face and almost wishing he could give in to her blandishments. Then he thought of Draco’s face when he heard that his mother had gone to prison to save him. His resolve hardened.

“And what if it _does_ work? What if Andromeda lies for you and you go to Azkaban for the rest of your life? How will Draco feel about that?”

He felt her waver. Saw the first hint of tears in her eyes. Heard her breath hitch.

“He’d murder me, if I let you do it.”

Her voice was very small when she said, “I have to save him.”

“Not this way. And not alone.”

“You don’t understand, Harry. I’m his mother and I’ve failed him in so many ways…”

“I do understand.” He drew her close to him again, looping one arm around her shoulders and bending to lay his cheek on her hair. “I do. But this isn’t the way to fix it.”

“How?” She gave a faint, dignified sniff. “How can I fix my mistakes, when my son is lost to me?”

“He isn’t lost. He’s just… mislaid for a bit, but I’ll get him back. For both of us.”

The low gurgling noise she made might have been a chuckle. It was hard to tell with her face turned into his shoulder. Harry smiled and gave her a squeeze.

He was about to extort a promise from her not to do anything stupid, then detach himself from this agonizing scene and get back to the disaster waiting for him at home, when Narcissa suddenly pulled away from him and cried, “Oh, my, I forgot about Lissy!”

“Lissy?” Harry felt as if an ice cube had just slid down his throat to his stomach. “What about her?”

“I told her to hide in the cellar ’til I called for her, just in case the Aurors came back…”

“Bloody hell! They didn’t see her here, did they?!”

“No, they didn’t see her.She was following your instructions and staying away from the cottage when they came for Draco. She only returned when I… well, I called for her. I needed someone here with me, and you didn’t respond to my Patronus, so…”

“I know it’s hard for you to be alone here,” Harry sighed, “but you really shouldn’t…”

“Lissy will not do anything to endanger me,” Narcissa cut in firmly. “She’s a dear friend. The only friend I have, right now. And I won’t send her away when she’s so frightened for Draco!” Her face softened in a way Harry rarely saw it when she added, “She loves him as much as I do, you know. She practically raised him. And I honestly believe that it’s better to keep her here, under my eye, than to let her wander around doing Merlin knows what when she’s wild with fear. She doesn’t understand, you see. For her, it’s all about punishment, and in her mind, Draco is being unjustly punished.”

“Yes, I see. But…”

He wanted to ask her not to summon the elf. To tell her that he couldn’t cope with two distraught mother-figures in one day. But she didn’t give him the chance.

Before he could get the words out, she tipped her head back and called, loudly, “Lissy!”

A deafening _crack_ split the air, followed by a miserable wail. Harry felt a pair of scrawny arms fasten about his legs, nearly pitching him over on his face.

“Harry Potter is here!”

Narcissa caught Harry's arm to steady him. “Yes, now let him go, Lissy.”

“Is Harry Potter finding Master Draco?! Is he bringing Master Draco home?! Is that why Harry Potter is here?!”

“I will, I promise,” Harry said, hearing the weakness of that promise, even as he uttered it.

Lissy tilted her head back to fix him with huge, tear-drenched, reproachful eyes but did not loosen her clutch on his legs. “Harry Potter is promising many things he is not doing,” she said dolefully.

“I know.” Harry patted her shoulder awkwardly. “I’m sorry. But you have to understand, Lissy. There are things happening that are beyond my control.”

“Bad things is happening.” Lissy let go of him and stepped back. Her little face was strangely hard. Angry in a way that Harry didn’t associate with elves. Full of something that Harry might have called hatred in another sort of creature. “Wizards is doing bad things. Evil things. Wizards is being stupid and cruel and is punishing Master Draco for things he is not doing. But Lissy is not letting them. Lissy is finding her young master, if Harry Potter is not, and saving him from the bad wizards.”

“I’m afraid you can’t,” Harry said quietly. “He’s in Azkaban. Elves can’t get onto the island—no one can without permission from the Minister for Magic—so you can’t reach him.”

The elf shuddered. “Lissy is knowing of this place. All elves is knowing. It is an evil, terrible place, where elves is not allowed to help their masters.”

She sounded more like herself when she said it—mournful instead of enraged—and the eyes she turned on Harry were pleading.

“If Harry Potter is knowing where Master Draco is, why is he not bringing him home?”

“Because I’m not allowed on the island, either. Not ’til I prove that Draco didn’t do the things they’re accusing him of. But I will. I _promise._ ”

The elf’s ears perked up. “Lissy will help.”

Harry eyed her in exasperation.

The last thing he needed now was another Malfoy intent on _helping_.

“If you really want to help me, you’ll stay here with Narcissa and keep her out of trouble.”

The bat-ears drooped. “Is the bad wizards coming for my Mistress?”

“Not unless she does something stupid.”

Harry shot Narcissa a challenging look and was rewarded with a delicate flush of embarrassment on her cheeks.

“I won’t do anything without consulting you,” she murmured.

“Thank you.”

“But you are asking a great deal of us, Harry. Draco is my son.

“And my young master!” Lissy piped in.

“Well, he’s my husband, and I want him home as badly as you do. So trust me and let me do my job, right?”

Narcissa sighed and nodded, her mouth drooping dejectedly.

On an impulse, Harry leaned over to drop a kiss on her cheek. “Trust me.”

“I do, Harry.” She reached up to touch his cheek. “With my heart.”

Harry smiled his understanding, stepped away, and turned into the darkness.

* * *

“ _Rennervate.”_

Draco awoke face-down on a stone floor in a pile of rotting straw. It was icy cold. So cold that he did not feel the ropes biting into his wrists until someone grabbed his bound arms and dragged him to his feet. Then pain shot through him and blood ran warm over the backs of his hands.

“Rise and shine, Malfoy. Wouldn’t want you to sleep through the fun,” a familiar voice gloated.

He staggered to catch his balance, shaking his head to clear the fog of multiple Stunning spells that clogged it, and looked around him in trepidation.

He was in a cell. A bare stone space, one wall made entirely of bars, the opposite one filled by a shelf that served as a bed. The floor and shelf were covered with a layer of rancid straw. He was stark naked, his bare feet already blue-white with cold, and he could see not one scrap of fabric in the cell with which to cover himself.

They had taken everything from him. His clothes, his wand, even his wedding ring.

Before he could take in any more than this—could even peer at the robed figures surrounding him—a hand grabbed a fistful of his hair and flung him bodily against the bars. He crashed into them hard enough to drive the air from his lungs. His knees started to buckle, but the hand fastened on the back of his neck and pinned him ruthlessly in place. He closed his eyes, fighting to control the panic rising in him, as brutal hands held him spread-eagled against the bars and ropes snaked out to bind his limbs.

“Ah, ah!” The hand pulled his head back, then slammed it against the bars again. “Don’t check out on me, cunt. Open your eyes. That’s it.”

His eyes fluttered open to find Nasty grinning at him from only a handspan away.

“Good boy. You behave yourself, now, and we won’t let the werewolf have you just yet.”

As he spoke, Warwick nodded toward something beyond the bars of his cell, prompting Draco to turn and look. He saw a passage as cheerless, grim and punishing as his cell, lit by smoking torches. Identical barred openings lined it, most of which showed curious faces peering out at him. One such face was pressed to the bars of the cell directly opposite his, watching him with a hunger that made Draco’s blood run cold and his stomach clench.

Fenrir Greyback.

There was no mistaking him. Even under all that hair and that beard gone wild, the feral eyes were the same. The nails like claws. The cracked lips rimmed with what looked like old blood. The pointed teeth that he bared in a fierce, predatory grin.

As their eyes met, Greyback ran his tongue over his teeth and reached down to rub his crotch. Draco whimpered—the first sound he’d made since waking up in this freezing hell—and shut his eyes again.

Greyback hooted and called, in his harsh, guttural growl, “I’m ready for you, Malfoy! Ready for another taste!”

Warwick laughed and smacked Draco on one bare buttock. “Like I said, behave yourself and you’ll get to keep that nice, white skin in one piece for awhile. After all, we have to make a good showing at the trial.”

“What do you want?” Draco whispered, eyes still tightly shut and tears beginning to squeeze through his lashes.

“You’ll figure it out. Smart little cocksucker like you. Just stay awake, keep your wits about you, and show your friends a good time.” Turning away from Draco, he bellowed, “Bring ’em in!”

Draco kept his eyes firmly shut, refusing to look when he heard new footsteps shuffling along the stone passage. He was aware of more bodies crowding into his cell, more mutters and laughter, more hot breath on his skin, more odors that didn’t belong to the Aurors or the guards, but he absolutely refused to look. Then he heard a voice he could not ignore—a sly, whining, high-pitched cackle that raised the hair on his nape—and his eyes snapped open.

“Ooh, looky here! It’s my favorite bum-boy! Still as sweet as ever, little Drakey?”

Amycus Carrow. Even more hideous than Draco remembered, with his lumpy body, mismatched eyes and lascivious grin. And behind him, a gaunt shadow with a black beard, Rabastan Lestrange.

Draco’s eyes jumped from face to face, taking them all in, recognizing them as much by the grins on their faces and the glistening hunger in their eyes as by their features, which were hidden behind layers of hair and dirt. Rowle. Travers. Mulciber. All men who had bought him. Fucked him. Used him to humiliate his father.

He gave a low sob and screwed his eyes shut again.

“You know the rules, boys,” Warwick said from somewhere outside the cell.

Apparently, he was leaving Draco at the mercy the prisoners.

“No permanent damage and no injuries that can’t be healed with a spell or two. We need him pretty for the Wizengamot.”

“Ooh! Me first!” Carrow panted.

“You’ll all get plenty of chances. He’s not to sleep. That’s the important thing. Take it in turns, pace yourselves, but keep the cunt awake, right? Let the guards know if you need some help.”

A Stinging hex struck Draco in the side. His eyes snapped open to find a guard leering at him. “Don’t make me do the honors, Malfoy,” he taunted. “I won’t be as gentle as your friends, there.”

Draco just shut his eyes. He didn’t know what else to do. He was surrounded by horrors with no way out but to survive it. If he could. If they intended to give him that chance.

Bodies crowded close around him, muttering, the smell of their lust almost overwhelming the stench of their unwashed flesh. Draco mouthed Harry’s name silently, knowing he didn’t dare say it aloud. Carrow saw his lips move and cackled in glee.

“Saying a prayer, Malfoy? Fat lot of good that’ll do you!”

The first hand touched him.

Greyback began to howl.

**_To be continued…_ **


	10. Chasing Hinkypunks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your comments and for showing that you're invested in the story! Here's another installment for you...
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

_Le Monde Magique_

**_ARREST IN MEMORY THIEF ATTACKS_ **

_Law Enforcement officials with Britain’s Ministry of Magic announced today that they have arrested Draco Malfoy in connection with the notorious Memory Thief crimes. Malfoy was taken into custody yesterday at the home of his mother, Narcissa Black Malfoy, in the Nouvelle-Aquitaine region of Southern France. How Aurors traced the British National to this country is unknown, as is what part French Magical authorities played in the arrest._

_According to the Ministry, Malfoy is being held for questioning. He has not been formally charged with any crime. Malfoy’s famous spouse, Harry Potter, has made no public statement about his husband’s arrest…_

* * *

_The Daily Prophet_

**_MALFOY BEHIND BARS_ **

_Wizarding Britain heaved a sigh of relief today with the news that Dark wizard and brutal murderer Draco Malfoy is finally in prison where he belongs. Head Auror Gawain Robards announced Malfoy’s arrest in the Atrium at Ministry of Magic Headquarters, sparking cheers and cat-calls from an audience of reporters, protestors and Ministry officials. While all present were relieved that Malfoy’s reign of terror was over, many questioned what took Aurors so long to make the arrest and when they would file formal charges with the Wizengamot._

_It’s safe to say that Malfoy’s trial will be the event of the season, when it finally happens…_

* * *

_The Quibbler_

**_MINISTRY OF MAGIC BOWS TO PUBLIC OUTCRY_ **

_…Malfoy’s arrest proves, once again, that the Ministry of Magic is more afraid of Rita Skeeter and The Daily Prophet’s readership than they are of letting actual criminals walk free. Malfoy has been excoriated by Skeeter’s quill, tried in the Court of Public Opinion, and hounded mercilessly since the moment he set foot in wizarding society, for no reason other than his name and his former occupation._

_Since his much-publicized return from the dead, Malfoy has led an exemplary life, quietly keeping house with his celebrated husband, trying to stay out of the public eye, and occasionally drinking tea with Muggles. Now, through no fault of his own, he once more faces trumped-up charges leveled by a world that refuses to grow up, move on, and accept that a wizard is more than just his name. Even when that name is Malfoy…_

* * *

Harry couldn’t sleep in his own bed. Not with the other side so empty. He tried the settee in the living room and managed a few hours, but was up before the sun, wrung-out and gritty-eyed, as if he’d been sleeping with his face in a pile of sand.

His dreams still lingered behind his eyelids, vivid and agonizing. Visions of Draco as Harry had seen him countless times in this very room… Curled into the corner of the settee, feet tucked under him, wrapped in cashmere and leggings and Molly Weasley’s knitted afghan, sipping tea from a china cup… Lying with his head in Harry’s lap and Abraxas against his ribs, softened by sleep, smiling as Harry stroked his silver-gilt hair… Kneeling naked on the settee, hands clutching its carved back, straining to hold Harry’s cock and gasping as he emptied himself on the cushions…

So beautiful they made his chest ache.

With a groan and a curse, he rolled off the settee and headed blindly for the bathroom, where he tried in vain to pull himself together. After nicking his chin with a Shaving charm and turning his hair to a ridiculous rat’s nest by finger-combing it, he made his way down to the cold, dark, lonely kitchen. There, he brewed himself a pot of coffee as black as tar, downed two cups, then chucked it all in the sink with yesterday’s forgotten breakfast dishes and went back upstairs to get dressed.

He had to get the fuck out of here or he’d lose his mind.

He apparated to Ron and Hermione’s without bothering to warn anyone that he was coming. Hermione was already up, tending to a teething Rose. She met his arrival with a marked lack of surprise. He sloped into the kitchen, looking like he’d been exhumed from a fresh grave, to be met by an appraising look and an order to sit down before he fell down. He dropped into a chair at the kitchen table, accepted the cup of coffee she poured for him, and took an unwary gulp.

“ _Fuck_ , that’s hot!”

Hermione gave him a severe look, lips pursed in disapproval of his language, but didn’t bother to scold him. Plopping down in the seat across from him with Rose on her lap, she fixed him with that measuring look again. Her eyes promptly softened.

“You look dreadful, Harry. Do you want something to eat?”

He shook his head. “I just couldn’t bear to be in that cottage alone for another minute. I had to get out. I’m sorry if I…”

“Don’t be silly.” She regarded him sadly for a moment, then ventured, “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Have you got a time-turner stashed somewhere? I’d like to go back and break Draco’s legs to keep him in the bloody cottage.”

She laughed softly, shaking her head, and reached out a hand toward him. He stretched out his own to take it and felt the knot in his chest loosen at her touch. Hermione and Ron were the constants in his life—the people who never let him fall, never let him fail, never turned him away when he needed them. Even if all he needed was a better cup of coffee than he could brew himself and a hand to hold.

“I’m glad to hear you talking that way.”

Harry’s brows rose. “Threatening violence to my absent spouse?”

“Recognizing where the responsibility lies.” She eyed him for a moment, then added, “I was afraid you were going to climb up on that pyre of yours, again.”

“I’m not some kind of compulsive martyr, Hermione.”

“Oh, please. You’ve been trying to immolate yourself for some imagined failing where Draco is concerned since we were back at school. Remember when you told me it was your fault that the Ministry had never found him after the war? As if you hadn’t turned over every rock in Britain, looking for him? Seriously, Harry. I wanted to smack you for that one.”

He rolled his eyes, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Okay. I can… every now and then… be a bit of a martyr. With a _saving people_ thing. But you have to admit that the people around me seem to need a lot of saving.”

She smiled, eyes glistening with the beginnings of tears. “You’ll save him. I know you will.”

He shrugged uncomfortably and felt his throat thicken. “I’ve failed pretty spectacularly, so far.”

“Only because you weren’t properly motivated. You always do your best work under pressure.”

“Pressure!” He gave a slightly soggy laugh. “Is that what you call it?”

Leaning forward, she said earnestly, “You’re a brilliant Auror, Harry. I don’t say it nearly often enough, but you are. You and Ron, both. It amazes me what you can do together, the puzzles you solve, the people you help.” The tears filled her eyes and threatened to spill over her lashes. “You make me so proud.”

“I don’t feel brilliant. I feel like… I can’t even explain it.”

“Oh, my dear, you don’t have to explain anything to me.”

“I… I have to find him, have to bring him back, because if I don’t…” He stalled out, overwhelmed by the enormity of his own pain. Then he tried again.

“When he’s home, I can feel him all around me. Hear his voice in the next room. Smell his shampoo on the pillow. Reach out and…”

He unconsciously stretched his hand out toward her, and she took it, twining their fingers together.

“Reach out and touch him, just to feel his skin against yours,” she finished for him.

He nodded. “When he’s there with me, the world is right. When he’s not, I can still feel and hear and smell him, but it isn’t real. It _hurts._ God, Hermione!” He dropped his head to bury it in one folded arm. “It hurts so much!”

Her fingers tightened on his. “I live with a man I’ve loved since we were children, and I’ve had to face the very real possibility of losing him more than once. I know exactly how you feel.”

“I’ve forgotten how to breathe without him.”

“You haven’t. It only feels that way, but you’re still breathing, and so is Draco. You’re both alive, both fighting to get back home to each other and set the world right again. I believe you will, Harry. I believe in both of you.”

“I can’t do this.”

“Can’t do what, mate?” A sleepy voice demanded. “Pull my wife?”

Harry looked up to see Ron shuffle into the room, rumpled and yawning, scrubbing at his hair with one hand.

“Idiot,” Hermione said fondly. She smiled up at Ron and accepted his somewhat haphazard kiss—it landed closer to her chin than her lips—then held out the snoozing baby to him. “Since you’re up, you can take care of Rose while I get breakfast started.”

“Yeah.” He yawned hugely, settling the baby against his shoulder with practiced ease. “Ta, love.”

Ron settled into the chair Hermione vacated and blinked owlishly at Harry. “Am I imagining things, or are you here ridiculously early?”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“M-me either,” he said on another enormous yawn.

Harry chuckled at that.

Hermione set a mug of coffee in front of Ron and turned back to the stove. “I was just trying to lift Harry’s spirits.”

“Good luck with that.”

“I was pointing out,” she said firmly, “that you two will solve your case and have Draco home in no time.”

“That we will.” Ron downed half the mug in two swallows. “If only because I can’t stand to see Harry moping around, looking like a kicked puppy, because someone nicked his ferret.”

“Ronald!” she scolded, but Harry chuckled again.

“Hermione says we do our best work under pressure. Is that pressure for you? My kicked-puppy-dog look?”

“Too right.” He turned eyes now brightening under the influence of caffeine on Harry. “So. You headed to Zagreb today?”

Harry groaned and dropped his head onto his arm again.

“What’s this?” Hermione asked, from her place by the stove.

“Harry’s going back to Croatia to see if he can shake anything loose in the Aysgarth investigation.”

“No, Ron _wants me_ to go to Croatia,” Harry corrected, lifting his head to fix a sour gaze on his partner, “but I haven’t agreed to anything.”

“It makes sense, mate. You can’t show your face at the Ministry or speak to witnesses in an official capacity…”

“Here _or_ in Zagreb!” Harry interjected.

Ron waved that away disdainfully. “You think the Croatian Magical Council is going to know that Robards suspended you? You think they’re going to _care?_ ”

“What do you hope to find there?” Hermione asked.

“Anything he may have missed last time. He was in a hurry, distracted by all their sucking-up, more worried about getting Aysgarth’s body home while some magical traces remained in it than doing a proper job. Now we have a clearer idea what to look for…”

“You do?”

Ron exchanged a look with Harry that told him his partner had not shared Draco’s revelations with his wife. “And no time constraints. He can take as long as he needs.”

“It sounds reasonable, Harry,” she ventured, casting him a cautious look from the corners of her eyes.

“I know, but I don’t want to be out of the country now, when Draco needs me here.”

“He _needs_ you to find a crack in this bloody case,” Ron insisted. “Any crack that will let us in. So far, we’ve got fuck-all to go on.”

“I know that, Ron,” Harry sighed, now slumped forward with his elbows on the table and his face buried in his hands. “I just… I can’t bear the thought of being all the way in fucking _Croatia_ if something happens to him! I did that once. It sucked. Now you’re asking me to go away again, and leave him in that… that place…”

“I’m asking you to help me solve this thing.” Ron was all earnest insistence now, no flippancy or humor about him. “I’ll work the Ministry angle—redo all of MacMillan’s interviews, talk to our only victim who’s willing to cooperate, go through the physical evidence with the Forensics boys. Neville will keep his ears open around the HQ and keep us up to date on what the Git Twins are doing.”

“Pompous and Nasty,” Harry murmured into his hands.

Ron snorted. “We’re each working our end. Your end is Croatia. And Andromeda. And talking your mother-in-law down off the ledge. And, if it comes to it, going all ‘Chosen One’ on Shacklebolt’s arse.” He stared Harry down for a moment, then said flatly, “We have to find that crack, Harry, or we’re fucked. Ferret is fucked.”

Harry nodded wearily, his resistance crumbling under the force of Ron’s relentless logic.

“We’ll keep in close touch, Harry,” Hermione assured him, her face twisted with distress. “We’ll send Owls with details of the investigation…”

“I won’t be there long enough for bloody Owls,” he growled.

“…And a Patronus if anything important happens.”

“One day.” Harry dropped his hands and glared at them. “I’ll give it one day, then I’m back here where I belong.”

“But you have to be thorough…”

His face hardened. “Oh, I’ll be thorough. Don’t you worry.” He pushed himself to his feet, jaw set and teeth clenched.

“Have some breakfast before you go,” Hermione urged.

“No, thanks. If I’m going on this Crumple-horned Snorkack chase, I might as well get it over with. See you tomorrow.”

With that, he was gone.

*** *** ***

The first time the guards came for him, they made an odd show of courtesy. They cut him down from the bars, _Scourgified_ the blood and filth from his body, even neatened his hair, then gave him clean, if threadbare, prisoner robes to cover himself. It was the closest thing to warmth that he’d felt—other than the sweat and spunk of other men on his skin—in countless hours. The instant the fabric settled around him, he wavered, nearly passing out from sheer relief, until he remembered what the guards would do to him if he so much as closed his eyes.

Pulling himself together, he turned a bleared gaze on the nearest of his escort—a weedy man with a patchy, red beard—and waited for instructions. The man handed him a metal flask.

“Go on. Drink,” he said.

Draco tilted it to his lips without hesitation. He knew he ought to refuse, that it could have potions or poisons in it to weaken his already befuddled mind, but he was too thirsty to care.

It was water.

Once again, he had to fight the urge to faint or weep with gratitude. Instead, he drained the flask in a few long swallows and handed it back to the guard. Then his escort caught his unbound arms and ushered him out of the cell.

Greyback was standing at the bars of his own cell, watching. He licked his lips and snarled something foul at Draco’s retreating back that he ignored. He was becoming expert at ignoring the werewolf—something he would never have believed possible until he found himself in this place.

Azkaban.

He’d recognized it the moment he opened his eyes on that cold, stone floor, though he’d never seen the island fortress before. Perhaps it was the cold. Or the dirt. Or the rats that lurked beneath the straw. Or the misery that oozed from the walls like blood from a scabbed wound.

Most likely, it was the company. All those old friends. So pleased to see him.

He stumbled along dark, dank passages and down winding stairs, held up by his guards, his feet swollen and aching from standing so long in one position, his body torn and bruised and abused in ways he recognized all too well. He would gladly have sunk down in a lonely corner, closed his eyes, and never opened them again. But he knew by now that wouldn’t be tolerated.

He tried to concentrate on where they were taking him or what he would face when he got there, but his head was floating in an odd manner and his thoughts slipping off into the fog. He was beyond exhausted—had left exhausted behind in the dark some hours ago—and confused. Disoriented. Barely able to remember where his feet were or how to use them—except for the pain. That anchored him in his own body. Spiked through him with every step and kept him from drifting away.

He guessed that they were at ground level, or maybe below it, when the guards pushed him out of the stairwell and down yet another dark, freezing, stone passage. A door stood open for them. They guided him through it and into… warmth!

The room beyond the door was warm… so warm… magical warmth all around him, soaking instantly through his flimsy robes to touch his marble-cold skin. He halted and swayed drunkenly, eyes smarting with sudden tears. For the second time in a handful of minutes, relief and gratitude made him giddy.

The guard gave him a push to get him moving. He took an unwary step, gasped as pain shot up his leg, then crumpled to the floor.

“Get him up,” a familiar voice barked, and hands hauled him to his feet.

A moment later, the hands set him on a stool at a rough, scarred, wooden table. He blinked his eyes back into focus, knowing he’d get a blow or a hex to encourage him if he didn’t, and looked at the man seated across from him.

Nasty, of course.

Pompous stood at his shoulder, arms crossed, glaring down his nose at Draco with a look that said he’d rather be stomping on his face than staring at it.

Draco knew the look, or how how it felt from the inside, anyway. He’d worn it often enough.

“Wait outside,” Nasty said to the guards.

They ducked out and pulled the door shut behind them. Pompous waved his wand, presumably locking the door and putting up a Muting spell. And Draco was alone with his captors. For the present, fear brought him into focus. He was tense. Alert. Ready for anything—he hoped.

“All right, there, Malfoy?” Warwick asked in a pleasant tone that rang entirely false in Draco’s ears, even in his current state. “Can I get you anything?”

“A solicitor,” he rasped out, feeling as if his throat were full of ground glass. “And a square meal.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of a glass of water.”

“Cup of tea would be nice.”

Tea fixes everything. That’s what Harry said. But he couldn’t think of Harry now, or he’d burst into tears and humiliate himself in a way that taking it up the arse from Amycus Carrow couldn’t.

Warwick chuckled. Almost as if he appreciated his prisoner’s sauciness. “I only drink tea with friends. Are we going to be friends?”

With a twitch of his wand, he produced a drinking glass that he filled with an _Aguamenti_ charm.

“Get that into you. Then we’ll have a chat, and if I think you’re being a good boy, I’ll consider something more.” He cocked his head. Narrowed his eyes. “Understand me?”

“Perfectly.”

Draco reached for the glass. His sleeve rode up to expose the raw, ragged wound circling his wrist, where he’d pulled against his bonds. It was oozing fresh blood. At least his circulation was improving enough to let his blood flow properly, and his fingers were thawing in the warmth so he could actually close them around the glass. Lift it to his lips. Let the water slide down his parched throat and into his painfully empty stomach. He closed his eyes in relief.

“Ah, ah,” Warwick chided, “you know better than that.”

Draco opened his eyes again. He had to stay focused. In the present.

He found a spot on Nasty’s face, a puckered scar that ran from the corner of his mouth to his chin, and stared at it. Studied it. Tried to picture the wound that had made it. Not a curse. The texture was wrong. A blow, maybe? From a stone? Something hard and jagged…

His vision swam out of focus as he watched his own hand pick up a chunk of stone—fingers white against the dirty grey—and slam it into the Auror’s face. Saw the skin tear and the blood spurt…

“Oi! Malfoy!” Warwick slapped a hand on the table to get his attention. “Stay with me.”

Draco forcibly brought the man’s face back into focus, then asked, “How long have I been here?”

“Twenty-four hours, give or take.”

Only twenty-four hours. One day.

Draco shook his head in blank disbelief.

It had to be a week, at least, didn’t it?

He reached for the glass of water again, trying to ground himself with something solid, and caught MacMillan’s eyes glaring angrily at him. The man seemed barely able to contain his rage and disgust. But what was he angry about? That his prisoner dared to have a drink of water? That he was sitting at a table, wearing robes, instead of sprawled naked on the floor of a cell with an ex-Death Eater buggering him senseless?

Mustering some vestige of his old snarkiness, Draco lifted an eyebrow at him and took a sip of water.

MacMillan snorted. Looked away. Clenched his teeth ’til his jaw bulged.

“Now, then,” Warwick said, drawing Draco’s eyes back to him, “ready to talk?”

Draco carefully set the glass on the table, concentrating hard so as not to spill it. “About what?”

“The men you _Obliviated_ and killed.”

“I didn’t.”

The Auror shook his head. “Not a good start.”

Draco just stared at him in silence.

“We know you did it, Malfoy. We’re going to get your signed confession. The only question is how long it takes and how much it hurts. So. Do you want to sit here with us, nice and friendly, sipping tea and telling us all about it? Or do you want to go back and let your Death Eater fuck-buddies jog your memory?”

“I didn’t attack anyone.”

“Hm. Not ready to go there, yet? All right, let’s work our way up to it. Tell me how you know all these men. How and when they fucked your pretty, pureblood arse. How many times. How much they paid for the privilege. Why you’ve suddenly decided it wasn’t enough, that they have to pay with their memories and their lives.”

Draco shook his head.

Warwick sighed in mock disappointment. “I’m sorry you’re taking this position.” He did not look or sound even remotely sorry. In fact, he seemed delighted. “I thought you were smarter than this, Malfoy. I thought you wanted to be my friend.”

“I want to go home.”

The Auror threw his head back and laughed. “Not in this lifetime!” Waving his wand at the door, he bellowed, “ _Guards!_ ”

Draco’s escort sidled into the room.

“Take him back to his cell. Same rules. We’ll see how he feels tomorrow.”

Tomorrow. Another day that felt like a week. Another lifetime of watching Fenrir Greyback wank himself raw, while Lestrange or Carrow fucked him into the bars of his cell.

He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream and beg and promise to confess to anything if they would only send him home to Harry. Instead, he got to his feet and let the guards march him away.

Back to all those old friends.

*** *** ***

Saul Croaker was not an impressive-looking man, but he had presence. That was the only way to describe it. His head barely came up to Ron’s shoulder, his nondescript hair was thinning, and his eyes had a faraway look to them that made him seem distracted or slightly dim. Until something caught his interest. Then looking into his eyes was like staring into the heart of Fiendfyre—hot and bright and deadly.

He was gazing at Ron with those incendiary eyes now, a smile curling up one corner of his thin mouth.

“Why are you showing me these pictures, Weasley?”

Croaker’s question was a good one. Ron couldn’t give him the real answer—that he’d gone through the entire case, word by word, line by line, talked to witnesses, combed through evidence, and found nothing to suggest an answer; that he was, in fact, desperate—so he kept it simple. Told the only part of the truth that mattered in that moment.

“I’m hoping they’ll trigger a memory for you.”

The eyes narrowed, then dropped to the gallery of faces spread out on the table. There were a half-dozen of them, some cut from newspaper articles and others dug up from files. All were faces Croaker ought to recognize. All were connected to the Memory Thief case in some way.

“Of the attack?” he asked.

“That, or of the time leading up to it. Anything, really.”

“Hm.” He studied the faces for a moment. “Well, I know most of them.”

He began pointing to pictures.

“Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, of course. Phineas Boggs—the first victim, wasn’t he? That looks like one of the Black sisters—the younger one, I assume, since Bellatrix is dead. I’ve met all of them, at one time or another, at Ministry functions or society affairs.”

His finger skimmed past a photo, clipped from the newspaper, of Draco onstage at The Horntail and came to rest on one of Nero.

“I know him, as well.”

“Yeah?”

“His name is Nero. He runs a brothel in Knockturn Alley.” Croaker shot him a wry, faintly embarrassed smile. “I’m a customer.”

Ron just nodded and tapped Malfoy’s picture. “What about him?”

The Unspeakable shook his head. “I’ve never seen him. How is this helping you, Weasley? I have no very recent memories of these people…”

“None of them? Not even Nero?”

“What are you looking for? Maybe, if you tell me, I can give you something useful.”

Ron gnawed his lip, wondering just how much to share, then gave a mental shrug and said, “Okay, I’m working on the theory that the Memory Thief crimes are all linked to one person.”

“Who?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Ron slid the picture of Draco across the table to him.

It was a risk, he knew, to reveal this detail to someone who had no loyalty to his friend and no reason to protect him. But Croaker was an Unspeakable. He lived to unravel mysteries. And they could use all the help they could get in unraveling this one.

Croaker picked up the newspaper clipping and studied it again, his face showing no hint of emotion. “I’m supposed to know him?”

Ron slid over the picture of Nero. “He worked for this man.”

The blood abruptly drained from Croaker’s face. “At The Horntail?”

“Yes. You were one of his punters.” Croaker paled still more and Ron hurried to add, “This isn’t about what you get up to after hours. You didn’t break any laws or hurt anyone, and as far as I’m concerned, no one needs to know about your trips down Knockturn Alley. I just want to recover _one_ memory— _any_ memory—of your attack, and I think he’s the key. Are you _sure_ you don’t recognize him?”

Croaker shook his head numbly. “I can’t believe I’ve ever seen him before. I would remember.”

“But you do remember Nero.”

“Yes, certainly.”

“How many times have you been to The Horntail, would you say?”

He thought about that for a moment. “Four or five.”

“And do you always… er…”

“Pay for sex?” Croaker said baldly. “That is why one goes to a brothel, isn’t it?”

“And do you remember the men you had sex with on those occasions?”

“Their names? No. Their faces? Yes, I believe so.”

“Did you watch the stage show at the club?”

“Yes.”

Ron pointed at the picture in his hand. “But you don’t remember seeing him on stage?”

“No.”

Ron sat back, chewing his lip, while Croaker went back to staring at the picture.

After a moment, he said, “You’re telling me that I saw this man perform on stage—dressed like this—then I paid for sex with him, but I have no memory of it. I remember all my other visits to the club and all my other partners, but not him.”

“Looks that way.”

Croaker gazed at the photo for another handful of heartbeats, then mused, “He’s very striking. Not someone I could ignore or—I would have said—forget, and yet I have not a flicker of recognition when I look at him. Attraction, yes, it would be foolish to deny it, but no recognition.” He looked up at Ron, his eyes bright and sharp with curiosity. “And this is the man responsible for the Memory Thief crimes?”

“Not responsible. He’s more the…” he broke off, searching for the word, then tried, “…the catalyst for them.”

“I assume that the other victims have a history with him similar to mine?”

“They all knew him, yes.”

“Knew in the sexual sense?”

Ron nodded warily.

“And they, too, have forgotten those encounters?”

“We don’t know for certain. You’re the only one willing to talk to us. But Boggs certainly has forgotten, and the dead men.”

“Hm.” He looked at Draco’s picture again. “To think I enjoyed this lovely creature’s company for an hour! That is one memory I would give a great deal to have back.”

Ron cleared his throat and plucked the picture from his fingers. “You’re talking about a friend of mine.”

The Unspeakable inclined his head slightly. Raised his eyebrows. “My apologies. You haven’t told me his name.”

Ron regarded him warily for a moment, then blurted out, “His name is Draco Potter. He’s one of my best mates, and he’s married to the Chosen One. If you fuck with _him_ , you answer to _us_. We may not look like much, but we took down bloody Voldemort, so don’t underestimate us, right?”

“He’s Harry Potter’s husband.”

“That’s what I said. And Harry lives to defend his husband’s honor, so do yourself a favor and forget you ever heard his name.”

Croaker opened his mouth, paused, shut it again, and nodded. “That should be easy, considering how much I’ve already forgotten about him.” After another long moment, he said, “I understood that they’d made an arrest in the Memory Thief case.”

“They arrested Draco,” Ron snapped, “but they’ve got it wrong. Dead wrong.”

“It seems to me that you’re desperate. Chasing hinkypunks in the dark, trying to unearth _Obliviated_ memories from a man who knew your friend for such a short time.”

“I’m chasing a killer, and I’m going to find him, with or without your memories.”

“If you really want to find him, follow the magic. You can come up with all the theories and profiles you like, but in the end, it’s the magic that matters. The spells, the wand, the magical traces that cannot be hidden or erased. Follow _them_ to your killer. Not ephemeral creatures dancing on the edge of sight.”

Ron wanted to snap, _fuck your hinkypunks!_ but he held his tongue. He also wanted to tell Croaker that they weren’t all imbeciles in the DMLE, that they knew forensics were the key to making any case stick, and often the key to exposing the culprit in the first place, but that they didn’t know what the fuck kind of magic they were dealing with.

Follow the magic. Fucking brilliant.

But again, he held his tongue, reasoning that the man didn’t know how long and how hard they’d been working this case. He was only trying to be helpful.

Gathering up the photos, Ron got to his feet. “Thanks for your time, Croaker.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t remember.”

Ron shrugged. “It was a long shot. _Obliviated_ memories almost never come back.”

“Hinkypunks,” the Unspeakable said with slight smile.

Ron just shook his head and strode out of the room, shoulders slumping.

*** *** ***

The second time the guards came for him, they had abandoned all pretense of courtesy. He was crouched in the filthy straw, arms stretched out in front of him, wrists bound to the bars, with Mulciber’s cock down his throat when they strode in. They gave the Death Eater a moment to finish, then banished Draco’s bonds and hauled him to his feet. They didn’t clean him up or offer him robes, simply bound his hands behind him with the wave of a wand, poured some water down his throat, and dragged him out of the cell.

He didn’t hear Greyback this time. He didn’t feel his feet against the floor. He barely understood what was happening until he was well down the winding staircase and lost his footing.

The guards made no effort to catch him.

He pitched headlong down the stair, body striking stone with stunning force, bones cracking, limbs heavy, bound and useless. The pain brought him back to himself. He lay on the landing where he’d finally stopped and gazed up at the guards several stairs above.

They just stood there, watching him. The weedy one smirked.

“Watch your step, there, Malfoy.”

He closed his eyes to block out the sight of them, and a hex struck him in the ribs. Still, he refused to open his eyes. Booted feet clumped on stone, hands dragged him up, pain ignited in his side, leg and head—fresh, new pain to overlay the old pain that crouched like a slavering beast in his guts—and he cried out.

“S’pose he’s really hurt?” the other guard muttered. The one who never talked. The one who’s face he could never remember.

“If he is, the Aurors’ll deal with it.”

Then they were walking again and Draco had to clench his teeth to keep from vomiting up the water they’d given him, along with Mulciber’s spunk.

Warwick and MacMillan were waiting for him in the interrogation room. Warwick had a sandwich and a paper cup full of tea in front of him, and he made a show of licking the salad cream from his lips as the guards hustled his prisoner over to the table. Draco dropped clumsily onto his stool, unstrung by pain and too lightheaded to control his descent. His stomach clenched agonizingly at the smell of food so close to him. The familiar, seductive scent of brewing tea. His eyes began to water, and he closed them against the threatened tears.

A hand struck his cheek, snapping his head to the side. Blood filled his mouth. Ran down his chin.

“Use your wand, not your hand,” Warwick chided the unknown owner of the hand.

Draco shook off the blow, igniting yet more pain in his abused skull, and turned bleared, dazed eyes on the face of the man seated across from him. He couldn’t quite focus his vision. Everything looked slightly doubled, and the Auror’s head left an after-image of rainbow colors in the air when it moved.

Warwick grinned and took a large bite of his sandwich. Through a nauseating mouthful of half-chewed meat, bread and salad cream—Draco could see that much clearly—he asked, “Have a nice breakfast of hot cock, Malfoy?” He gestured at his own smeared lips. “Still got a bit of come on your face, there.”

Draco just stared at him, blinking slowly. Blood dribbled down his chin and dripped onto his bare thigh.

“Nothing snarky to say today? That’s a pleasant change.” Turning to wink at MacMillan, he added, “We must be making progress.”

MacMillan looked sour. He shifted restlessly on his feet and shot a sullen glare at Draco. “Is he ready to talk?”

“I don’t know. Let’s ask him.” Shifting his gleaming, gloating eyes back to Draco, he propped his elbows on the table and asked, “Are you ready to talk, Malfoy?”

It cost Draco an effort to speak. He knew what words he wanted to say, but they wouldn’t come out of his mouth. And then, when they did, they sounded wrong, as if his mouth were full of something more than blood. Something thicker and nastier that coated his tongue and clogged his words.

Maybe it was all that come he’d swallowed.

Or maybe his mouth had broken loose from his brain when he fell, and he had no control over it.

On his third try, he managed to mumble, “’Bout what?”

“Same thing as yesterday.”

Draco shook his head distractedly. The movement made him dizzy. His stomach turned over.

“Concentrate, Malfoy. Look at me.”

He looked. He couldn’t help himself. The man’s voice must be obeyed.

Warwick smiled in satisfaction. “You ever work a suspect this way, MacMillan?” he asked, eyes still on Draco. “With sleep deprivation and physical stress?”

MacMillan shook his head.

“It takes time, but it’s worth it, and it’s dead fun to watch.” He gestured at Draco as if he were some rare form of Magical creature of which he was inordinately proud. “He’s only getting started. Lack of coordination, mental confusion, slurred speech. Give it another day, and he’ll be seeing things.” His smile widened into a carnivorous grin. “I wonder what kind of hallucinations this one’ll have?”

“We may not have another day. And what good is he to us, if he’s too bollocksed to confess?”

“Oh, he’ll confess. I guarantee it. You just have to be patient.”

MacMillan growled something under his breath and fixed his ferocious scowl on Draco again.

“All right, Malfoy. Tell us how you brain-blasted Phineas Boggs.”

“Boggs?” Draco asked vaguely.

He had tried to follow their exchange. He really had. He sensed that it was important—that it was all about him, and what Malfoy didn’t relish that?—but all he got were blurred snatches. Now they wanted to know about Boggs.

Boggs.

The man who’d fucked him across his father’s Slytherin-green coverlet, with the smell of his mother’s perfume in his head.

That Boggs? But that Boggs was… where? Not here, surely… not with Lestrange and Carrow and Greyback…

He shuddered.

“Sure, you remember Boggs. The man whose broomstick you polished so expertly for a year. You snuck into Malfoy Manor and melted his brain one night.”

“I…” Draco frowned. “I don’t…”

He understood the individual words that Warwick was saying, but he couldn’t assemble them into anything that made sense. His thoughts kept slipping out of his grasp. Disappearing into the fog, as they had right before he tumbled down the stairs.

That had hurt.

Would they hurt him like that again, to make him talk?

“What do you mean, _you don’t?_ ” Warwick snarled. “Don’t remember? Don’t want to tell us? Don’t want me to let Greyback fuck it out of you?! Come on, Malfoy! Talk to me!”

He tried. Tried to think, tried to speak, tried to obey. But he was overwhelmed, drowning in the sensations that filled his body and swamped his mind.

Hunger. Exhaustion. Pain. Cold. Such terrible, brutal, piercing cold that froze and split his very bones! He couldn’t bear it! Couldn’t breathe through the agony of it! He had to get out… get home… get warm or die…

A sob shook him, and even that meant more pain, as it contracted his battered ribs. The sob turned to a moan. He hunched forward, instinctively trying to shield his body even with his hands bound behind him, and let the whimpering, pathetic, humiliating sound bubble from his lips with his blood.

“Wh-what… do you want f-from me?” he gasped.

“The truth,” Warwick stated.

“I don’t kn- kn-nngh! I w-want to go… _home!_ ”

“You’re not _going_ home, Malfoy!” MacMillan suddenly bellowed, lunging forward to bring his face close to Draco’s.

Draco looked up at him through a screen of tangled hair, dazed and appalled by the shouting horror bearing down on him.

“You’re _never_ going home! You’re going to tell us the truth! Every filthy, disgusting detail! Then you’re going back to that cell and stay there ’til you _die!_ And _no one_ is going to care!”

“Back off, boy,” Warwick growled.

MacMillan ignored him. He continued to shout at Draco, spittle flying from his lips and rage burning in his eyes. “I’m going to show Potter your confession! Stand there and watch while he reads every stinking word! Then I’m going to bring him to your trial, so he can see the muck he married get what’s coming to him! And by the time it’s over, even _he_ won’t be able to forgive you! He’ll walk away, go back to the life you tried to steal from him, and leave _you_ to Fenrir Greyback! Where you should have been from the beginning! Get it, Malfoy?! Do you _finally get it?!_ You’re _done!_ No more _Savior!_ No more _Harry Potter!_ ”

Harry.

The name sang in his ears, swirled in his skull, settled round his heart.

Harry.

“That’s enough!” Warwick snapped.

MacMillan abruptly stepped back, away from the table. He was breathing hard, red in the face, filled with triumph at finally dumping all the verbal sewage he’d been carrying onto the head of the man crouched, naked and helpless, in front of him.

But Draco saw none of it. Heard none of it. His eyes had turned inward, his ears gone deaf to everything but the name…

Harry. His Harry. His husband.

Harry would never abandon him.

“Harry!” he gasped, suddenly shaking on his stool, filled with urgency and pain and the need to leap to his feet, rush out of the room, run to Harry. “Harry…”

“Shut it!” MacMillan shouted. “Shut your mouth about Potter!”

“Harry will c-come… He won’t give up… He _won’t!_ ”

 _He won’t, he won’t, he won’t,_ rang endlessly in Draco’s brain, bringing a tearing sob to his lips and tears to his eyes.

“Now you’ve done it,” Warwick said disgustedly. “You just had to mention Potter, didn’t you?”

“Make him talk!” MacMillan barked. “You said you could do it, so do it! Get his confession, already!”

“These things take finesse, and you just went at him like a crazed Erumpent!”

“He’s playing you!”

“He’s half out of his mind. And if you’d kept your fool gob shut, I’d have him talking already. But now we have to wait. Soften him up a bit more.”

Draco crumpled forward to rest his forehead on the table, still shaking with sobs, muttering, “Harry… Harry will come…”

“For Fuck’s sake!” Warwick growled. “Get the guards in here and get this cunt back to his cell! And I swear, MacMillan, if you cock this up again, I’ll have your bollocks for breakfast!”

Familiar, rough hands grabbed Draco and hoisted him off his stool. He didn’t fight them. Didn’t even look at the two Aurors. Just let the guards drag him out of the room and up the long, long, winding stair to the cell where his tormentors awaited him.

He could survive it. He could take it up the arse as many times as he had to without a whimper. Because Harry was coming for him.

Harry would never give up.

*** *** ***

“He said _what?_ ” Harry demanded, brows up under his fringe.

“Follow the magic. Yeah, I know it’s not much, but…”

“It’s nothing, Ron. Fucking nothing. Is that all you got from him?”

“Yeah,” Ron said, his cheeks reddening. “Well… except I was able to confirm that he remembers nothing about Malfoy at all. The man sat there and stared at his picture and had no fucking idea who he was. He even said…”

He broke off, his flush darkening.

“What?” Harry prompted.

“He, er, said he thought Malfoy was very attractive. That he _wanted_ to remember. But he couldn’t.”

“Hmph.”

Harry slumped back in his chair and stared at the mess on the desk.

He had spent a day in Zagreb, accomplishing nothing beyond annoying the Croatian authorities and driving himself insane looking for clues that weren’t there. Once back on British soil, he had dropped in on Andromeda with the same result. Now he was haunting Ron and Hermione’s cottage, afraid to go back to his own, sifting through piles of parchment and haranguing Ron every time he set foot in his home, demanding progress where there was none.

They had commandeered Hermione’s office and filled it with their pilfered files. The desk wasn’t as big as Harry’s antique monstrosity, and the room was so full of books that it was hard to move without tripping over them, but it gave them a place to work that had no shades of Draco lurking in the corners. That was all Harry needed.

That, and a solution to the puzzle.

“How long has it been?” he asked, his voice ragged with strain.

Across the desk, Ron fixed him with a lugubrious eye. “Don’t ask me that. You don’t want to know.”

“How long?”

Ron sighed. “We’re into Day Three.”

Harry closed his eyes. “Fuck.” He took a shaking breath. “Fuck. _Fuck._ ”

“Keep your mind on the job, mate, not the clock.”

“Right.” Harry assumed his Thinking Slouch, sliding still farther down in the chair and turning his eyes on the ceiling. “Let’s go through it again. We’ve got a powerful witch or wizard with the ability to use wandless magic and to manipulate it in ways we don’t understand. He can use Legilimency and has enough familiarity with prominent wizard families to identify his victims by their faces alone. He can disguise himself, move through wizarding society freely, get through wards without triggering them, and travel between countries without attracting attention. He has some strong emotional connection to Draco—love, hate, jealousy, we don’t know for sure which—that drives him to hurt these men. He’s completely bloody ruthless, meting out punishments with no apparent mercy or remorse. And he’s intent on erasing Draco from the minds of his victims, even if it means erasing their minds all together.”

He broke off. Studied the pale plaster above his head. Then asked, “Did I miss anything?”

Ron twiddled a quill between his fingers, eyes on the parchment scroll in front of him. “He must have some solid connection—beyond his emotional obsession, I mean—with Malfoy’s life. He had to know at least some of what happened to Malfoy before he started poking around in people’s minds for details, and he must have known it before all the stories about Malfoy’s past appeared in the paper.”

“It started with men who reached Draco through his father. Boggs. Aysgarth. They were the first victims.”

“So it ties back to Lucius and his disgusting treatment of Ferret during the war. That’s where their lives intersect.”

Harry grunted assent.

There was a long silence. Then, “Unless Malfoy told someone. Who told someone. Who told someone.”

“Or a Death Eater who was there told someone who told someone. Fuck,” Harry said to the uncaring ceiling. Hauling himself upright in the chair, he fixed a dyspeptic glare on Ron. “That got us nowhere.”

“Stick with it, mate. Let’s talk names. So, who fits the profile? Narcissa Malfoy, of course. She has the motivation and probably the magical ability. She knows more about her son’s life than most, though she’d need Legilimency to find all the victims.”

“Which she has admitted to.”

“Yeah, but she doesn’t have access. She’d have to move Andromeda into her house and pull out half her hair to get enough Polyjuice.”

“It’s been done,” Harry pointed out.

“You don’t think it’s her, though, do you?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Andromeda Tonks, then. Motivation is possible but sketchy—it’s hard to picture her raping and _Obliviating_ strangers because her sister asks her to—and her connection to Malfoy is even sketchier. There’s no way to prove that she knew anything about him before she read it in the _Prophet_. But she probably has the same magical abilities as her sister and much more opportunity to act.”

“I don’t think it’s her, either, but we have to leave the possibility open.”

“Okay, who does that leave us?”

Harry groaned and slumped back in his chair again. “No one! That’s the fucking problem!”

“Come on, Harry, get your mind off Malfoy and think like an Auror! Who are our possibles? If it’s about jealousy, then it could be an old lover—one who hasn’t been _Obliviated._ ”

“Or a fantasist. A psychopath. An obsessive fangirl.”

“That’s your thing, mate, not Ferret’s.”

“Still, you get what I’m saying.”

“I do. Right, then what if it’s about hatred?”

“Someone who wants him blamed for the attacks?”

“Someone who wants him in prison. Or away from _you_.”

“Hmm…” Harry chewed on that one for a minute. “Maybe, but the attacks started before my marriage went public.”

“Not before you were photographed snogging in Diagon Alley.”

“True. So then, it could be one of _my_ obsessive fangirls, who wants Draco out of my life.” He quirked a humorless smile at his partner. “Ernie MacMillan comes to mind.”

“Or our good friend Warwick, who thinks all Malfoys belong in prison.”

“Bloody hell. The list just went from too short to way too fucking long! But if I had to pick, I’d put Warwick at the top of it!”

Ron let out an explosive sigh and flung himself back in his chair. “You know what my real problem is? I can’t wrap my mind around _any_ of these people—the ones with names, I mean—doing this shite. It’s one thing to blame some mysterious Dark wizard lurking out there, someone we’ve never seen or heard of, but another thing entirely to say a bloke we’ve worked with for years is capable of this kind of thing!”

“He’s capable, all right. Just look what he’s done to Draco…”

“That’s not rape and murder, Harry. I know you love Ferret. I know it drives you mental to think of him in trouble or in pain. But slapping around a witness—even _that_ witness—is not the same thing as buggering a man with a broomstick and leaving him to die.”

“Right. You’re right.” Harry sighed, then offered, “What about Clive Prewett? He hates Draco enough to want him in Azkaban.”

“Can you really see that Dickless Wonder doing Master-class wandless magic?”

Harry let out a bark of laughter. “No. I can’t see him getting his hands dirty, either. If he wanted to do this, he’d hire a hit-wizard.”

“Except he’s a Ministry drone and doesn’t have the Galleons for it.”

Harry scrubbed his hands violently through his hair, hoping to dislodge some stray thought in the process. “So we’re back where we started. Either too many suspects or too few, and no fucking idea what to do next.”

“Chasing hinkypunks in the dark,” Ron said, a wry smile lifting one corner of his mouth.

Harry groaned. “I don’t need to be reminded that we’ve wasted more than _two days_ flying in bloody circles!”

On a sudden impulse, he bounded to his feet and began to pace. This was not the wisest choice, considering how little floor space there was in the tiny room, but he couldn’t hold still any longer. His blood was sizzling with adrenaline, in spite of his exhaustion, and he needed to _move._ Besides, it helped him think.

Ron watched him from his seat behind the desk, now chewing contemplatively on the end of his quill and leaving bits of feather on his lips.

“Maybe we should listen to Croaker,” he suggested. “Follow the magic.”

Navigating one perilous circuit of the room without running afoul of the books, Harry arrived back at the desk. He sorted through the papers lying on it and pulled out the magical scan taken from Croaker. The shifting, oscillating colors made as little sense to him now as they had the first time he’d seen them.

“I’d love to, if I could figure out where to start.”

Dropping the parchment, he resumed pacing.

“I think we’re losing sight of a key fact. These crimes aren’t about hatred for Draco or obsession with me. They’re about justice.”

“Huh,” Ron grunted.

“Only, think about the pattern. The attacks are ugly. Brutal. But most of the men didn’t suffer permanent injury—if you don’t count the lost memories. Now, who has been seriously hurt? Boggs? Aysgarth? Nero? What’s so special about them? What sets them apart from Nott or Croaker?

“They hurt Malfoy the worst. Took advantage of him. Systematically abused him.” Ron held up three fingers and began ticking them off as he spoke. “Aysgarth rapes him, basically starts him on a life of prostitution, and Aysgarth’s mind is wiped so thoroughly that he dies. Boggs buys him from Daddy more than once, then turns him into a sex toy, handing him off to his friends and hiding him from anyone who might put a stop to it. Boggs is brain-blasted and left a drooling idiot. Nero sells him to ten men a night and has him himself, on the side, telling him it’s for his own good, basically brainwashing him. Nero is dead.”

Harry halted, turned and grimaced at his old friend. “It makes you wonder what the Thief would have done to Lucius or Greyback, if he’d gotten to them.”

“You think Greyback is safe?”

“I don’t think the Thief can get into Azkaban. Look how many of Draco’s old customers are there, untouched.”

“That doesn’t exactly narrow the field of suspects.”

“No, but the sexual revenge angle does.” Harry resumed pacing. “This isn’t a Death Eater getting back at Lucius through his son or a Potter Fangirl trying to destroy my marriage. It isn’t even Warwick and MacMillan ridding the world of another Malfoy. This is someone who _loves_ Draco—or at least thinks he does—someone who wants justice—”

At that moment, Harry walked straight into a tower of books, smashing his foot and sending the entire stack crashing to the floor.

“ _Fuck!_ _Ouch!_ ” He hopped clumsily around on one foot, clutching the other in both hands to quell the throbbing in his abused toes, and stumbling into another book pile that fell with another resounding crash. Harry went over with it, fetching up in a tumbled mess of ancient, leather-bound tomes and sheets of loose parchment.

“Watch where you’re going, mate.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Harry wheezed.

Before he could sort himself out and get back on his feet, the door flew open to reveal Hermione standing just outside. She stormed into the room and planted herself where she could fix both men with her stern, reproving gaze. They simply goggled at her, alarmed and sheepish, not daring to move.

“ _What_ is going on in here?” she demanded. “I heard you crashing around all the way in the nursery!”

Ron shrugged. “We’re working, is all.”

“Working? How does Harry knocking over all my rare, ancient, _irreplaceable_ books and _sitting_ on them qualify as _working?_ ”

“I tripped,” Harry muttered, now extricating himself from the pile and clambering to his feet. “Sorry.”

Tactfully turning her wrath on her husband and leaving Harry time to collect himself, she scolded, “I let you use my space on the understanding that you would respect it, Ronald Weasley. That means you don’t disturb my books or papers, you don’t break anything, and you don’t interrupt your daughter’s nap by knocking the house down around her ears!”

Ron rolled his eyes at that. “Give over, Hermione. It was an accident. We’ll put all the ruddy books back.”

She huffed and crossed her arms, trying not to smile. “Don’t bother. You’d only get them in the wrong order.” Then she sidled a few steps closer to the desk. “What are you working on, anyway?”

“Just going through the evidence,” he flipped a few of the files with a fingertip, “trying to find something we missed.”

“Chasing hinkypunks in the dark,” Harry added sourly.

But Hermione wasn’t listening. Her eyes were fixed on the desk, her mouth slightly open, and her body unnaturally still.

“Hermione?” Harry stepped up beside her, frowning in concern. “What is it?”

She didn’t answer. Just extracted the magical scan from the litter of photos and files, holding it so she could study the fluctuations of color. She began to chew the inside of her mouth.

Harry looked from the scan to her face. “You know what that is?”

“Of course I do.” Her voice was just a little too high, a little too shrill, telling Harry that she was nervous and trying to hide it. “I’ve seen magical scans before…”

“No. I mean, you know what kind of magic that is?”

She pressed her lips together, her face going guarded in a way that made Harry’s scalp prickle.

“Hermione,” he said threateningly. “What is it? Tell me.”

She hesitated, then said, still in that brittle voice, “I’m not sure that I should.”

Rage erupted in Harry’s chest, but he fought it down. Fought for control. Fought to rein in the magic that sparked in his fingertips, seethed under his skin, and remember that this was his best, most loyal friend he was about to hex into twitching jelly.

“Are you serious?” He tried to hold his voice level, but it scaled up with every word, his magic rising in tandem with it. “You could break this case for us, and you’re _not sure you should?_ ”

“Take it easy, mate,” Ron cautioned.

Hermione flinched at the fury thrumming in his voice, but instead of retreating, she lifted her chin in defiance. “You can’t be sure this is the Memory Thief’s magic.”

“Yes, I can!”

“All the more reason to be careful. The Ministry has a long history of prejudice and mistreatment of…”

“This isn’t one of your negotiations, Hermione! Or one of your pet causes! This is _Draco’s life_ we’re talking about! Are you actually going to let him die in Azkaban because _you don’t trust the Ministry?!_ ”

“Of course not!” she snapped, cheeks flaming red and eyes suddenly bright with tears. “I just have to consider the ramifications…”

“No. You have to tell me the truth. _Now._ Unless you don’t trust _me_ , either?”

“Oh, Harry, of course I do,” she sighed. Then, her lips tight with distress, her eyes defiant, she bit out, “It’s house-elf magic.”

**_To be continued…_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't say this before without giving it all away but... To everyone who guessed it was the elf, CONGRATULATIONS! Obviously, you were paying attention! 
> 
> I'm sorry I still left you with a cliff hanger, but I had to split the chapter there or make it a novella in itself. I'll have the next one up as soon as possible.
> 
> Thanks for reading! If you're enjoying it, please comment!


	11. Confessions (Revised)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another one that's a series of quick cuts, because everything's happening at once. Hopefully it all makes sense!
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
>  **This chapter has been revised**  
>  I've made minor edits to the first half and very extensive edits to the second half, starting at the scene in Kingsley's office.
> 
> If you'd like to read the original version, please see the Appendix to the _In the Mirror_ series.

* * *

_Magisch Zeitgeist_

**_ANOTHER KIND OF MEMORY THIEF_ **

_Britain’s Ministry of Magic today announced that highly sensitive evidence, consisting of memories taken from witnesses in an unspecified case, has been stolen from within the Ministry itself. Two suspect are in custody at this time—infamous scandalmonger Rita Skeeter and Ministry flunky Clive Prewett. Prewett is believed to be the mastermind behind the theft, offering to sell Skeeter the memories for gold and for the pleasure of holding up certain high-profile figures to public ridicule in the Press. Skeeter apparently took the bait and bought the memories for use in one of her poison-quill exposés…_

* * *

_The Daily Prophet_

**_RITA SKEETER ON INDEFINITE LEAVE_ **

_Reporter and Biographer Rita Skeeter is on an indefinite leave of absence, pending resolution of personal and legal matters. Publication of Ms. Skeeter’s articles by this newspaper will be suspended until such time as she returns. We at The Daily Prophet apologize for this interruption and express our hope that Ms. Skeeter will be back with us soon. In the meantime, we will do our best to speed the course of Justice and cooperate fully with the Ministry’s investigation into this matter._

_On a personal note, I would like to say that I have worked with Rita Skeeter for many years and have always found her to be an honest, diligent, ethical journalist with the highest professional standards. I am deeply troubled by the accusations leveled at her, but I have no doubt that they will prove to be false. I wish her well._

_—Barnabas Cuffe, Editor in Chief_

* * *

“It’s house-elf magic.”

The words struck Harry in the chest like a Killing Curse. They ripped open his flesh. Smashed his ribs. Wrapped around his heart in a cold fist and squeezed… squeezed… _squeezed_ …

“A house-elf? That’s mental!” he heard Ron protest.

He ignored the inevitable row brewing between his two best friends, moving blindly to his chair and sinking into it.

“An elf wouldn’t do something like this! It _couldn’t!_ ”

“Your pureblood prejudice is showing, Ron,” Hermione scolded.

“It’s not prejudice!” Ron insisted. “It’s common sense! Elves can’t harm wizards!”

“Of course they can. They’re sentient creatures, with emotions and impulses and the power to act on them.”

“Yeah, but…”

“You only say they _can’t_ because they _haven’t_. They were slaves who believed they had no right to their own feelings or desires. But they’re not slaves anymore, and obviously, some of them are starting to understand that.”

She huffed and went on, “Honestly, we should have expected things like this to start happening, once the elves realized that they were no longer under our control. But we’re so short-sighted, where other Magical beings are concerned, that we don’t consider the consequences of our actions.”

“You sound like you _want_ it to be an elf, if only to teach us a lesson!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, her tone scathing. “The last thing I want is for the wizarding world to decide that elves are _dangerous._ ”

“Didn’t you just say that they are?”

“No more so than witches and wizards. Or Centaurs. Or Veela. Or any of the other Magical beings we live with everyday! They’re _people_ , Ron! _Individuals_ with their own ideas of right and wrong, just like us!”

“Hold on… if those scans prove it’s elf magic, why didn’t the Forensics boys spot it?”

Hermione scoffed at that, rolling her eyes. “Wizards don’t see elves. Or their magic.”

“I still don’t…”

“I know who it is!” Harry blurted out, cutting them off in mid-rant.

They both turned to fix startled eyes on him.

“What did you say?” Ron demanded.

“I know who it is. _Merlin’s Bloody Balls!_ It was right there in front of me the whole time! Hermione’s right! We’re all a bunch of short-sighted idiots!”

“You’re saying there’s an _elf_ involved in this?! You didn’t tell me about any elf!”

“I didn’t think about it.” He shot Hermione a chagrined look. “I didn’t see her.”

In the next breath, he bounded to his feet, leaping over the pile of spilled books on his way to the door.

“Oi! Where’s the fire, mate?”

“I’m going to catch a Memory Thief. Coming?”

Ron scrambled to follow, but Hermione stopped them in the doorway with a sharp cry. “Wait! Harry, what are you doing?! You can’t just entrap a defenseless house-elf without…”

Something very close to a growl rose in his throat, cowing her into silence. Then he said, through his teeth, “She’s not defenseless. She’s a criminal and a murderer.”

“I don’t care.” Hermione gulped, lifted her chin defiantly, and set her jaw. “I won’t let you bully that elf!”

“Stay out of it, Hermione!” he snapped, turning on his heel to leave.

“I’m coming with you!”

“ _Stay out of it!_ ”

Then he was gone, Ron offering an apologetic shrug to his wife as he followed close on his heels.

* * *

By the time the guards came for him again, Draco had lost count—of his interrogations, his hours of captivity, his rapists, his humiliations, his muffled sobs and tears hidden behind a screen of hair. He had gone to a place where none of that mattered. A place of cold and terror and constant pain. Where words made no sense and faces warped under his eyes into things too hideous to contemplate. Where the shades of his father and Lord Voldemort lurked in the corners, watching him bend over for one cock while swallowing another, watching and laughing at his defilement.

They cut his hands free. Without the ropes to hold him upright, he collapsed into the straw, too desperately cold even to shiver, too pathetically weak even to lift his head. They levitated him with a _Mobilicorpus_ until he was floating between them—feet dangling, head lolling on his shoulder—then they guided him out of the cell.

They were none too gentle about it. His feet kept scraping against the floor and his shoulders knocking against the walls of the stairwell. He knew it hurt. Some part of his brain felt it. But in that dreadful place, each new pain was much like the last. Part of the landscape.

He was vaguely aware of arriving in the interrogation room, where Pompous and Nasty waited for him. Lucius was there, too, never very far away anymore—waiting for him, probably, anxious for his son to join him. And Voldemort. And his snake, who was in the process of swallowing… something. Draco didn’t want to know what.

The anonymous guard lowered him onto his stool, then stood behind him and caught a fistful of his hair. Suddenly, the levitation spell was gone, and only that cruel fist held him upright. He kept his eyes open with an effort, knowing what was expected of him. The lids were bruised and swollen, gritty, hard to move, but he managed to get them up high enough to peer at Nasty through his sticky lashes.

His face kept shifting. Blurring. The lips thinning ’til they disappeared and the nose flattening…

Oh, please. Please, Merlin, no.

“Nngh—no,” he mumbled.

“Give him some water.”

The voice was right, but the tongue was forked at the end and the eyes were glowing red.

The weedy guard put his flask to Draco’s lips, while the other wrenched his head back by the hair. Draco drank the water that poured into his mouth. It hurt to swallow, hurt to feel anything in his stomach, hurt to think that a mouthful of water would keep him alive for another day when he wanted so desperately to die, even if it meant being with his fucking father. But he drank without protest because he had no protest, no resistance, no volition left in him.

When the guard lowered the flask and stepped away, the Warwick-Voldemort thing in front of Draco smiled. His mouth seemed to stretch and stretch, splitting his face and his head until it looked as if the top half would just fall away. Draco pictured his snake-like tongue wriggling between his teeth, exposed to view, and wanted to laugh hysterically. Instead, he gagged.

“You ready to talk yet, Malfoy?”

Draco opened his mouth to obey—to say what he had no idea—but all that came out was a kind of whimper.

“He looks pretty out of it,” Pompous said.

“Give him some Pepper-Up. It’ll clear his head.”

The guard behind him tilted his head back again. The other pressed glass to his lips. Draco swallowed burning-hot liquid that seared down his throat and into his cringing stomach. He gasped, wretched, choked on bile, clenched his watering eyes shut. The fist in his hair loosened, and he slumped forward onto the table.

“You sick that up and I’ll make you lick it off the floor,” Warwick-Voldemort said.

Draco bit his lip ’til blood filled his mouth but did not vomit. Slowly, he felt heat crawling through his body, thawing his chilled limbs, flushing under his skin, quickening his blood. He blinked, and the room around him solidified. Took on color. He breathed out and felt warmth in the air that passed his lips.

“Get him up. Let’s see what we’ve got.”

The hand twisted in his hair and pulled him up to lean against the body at his back. It was warm, too, and Draco exhaled what was almost a sigh of relief. His stomach still churned, threatening to bring up the potion, but its effects gave him the illusion of alertness.

He looked across the table and saw that the man seated opposite him was just Warwick. Nasty. The Auror who loathed and despised him. Not the snake-faced, noseless horror who wanted to consume his soul.

Maybe there was some mercy in the world.

Maybe.

“They’ve been hitting him in the face,” Warwick said, his eyes flicking to the weedy guard. “They need to lay off the face. Give it time to heal.”

“They get a bit excited,” the guard explained, his voice whiny and defensive. “It’s hard to control them, once they get going.”

“It’s your _job_ to control them,” Warwick snapped back. “If you can’t do it, I’ll find someone who can.”

“I thought we were done, anyway.”

“I’ll tell you when we’re done.” Turning his eyes back to Draco, Warwick said, “Do you know who I am, Malfoy?”

Draco ventured a nod, pulling against the fist in his hair.

“Say it. Nice and clear, so I can understand you. Who am I?”

“Warwick,” he rasped out.

“That’s _Auror_ Warwick. Or _Sir._ Say it.”

His mouth moved of its own accord, forming words his mind had not formulated. “Auror Warwick.”

“Good. And what’s your name?”

“Draco Potter.”

“Ah, ah. Don’t play games with me. Tell me your _real_ name, you Malfoy _cunt_.”

“Draco… Malfoy.”

“Very good.” Leaning back in his chair, he shot a look up at MacMillan, who stood behind him. “I think we’re ready.”

* * *

Harry paced the drawing room at Grimmauld Place, eyes darting from the hearth with its mundane orange flames to the window where no owl perched, brain seething with that combination of certainty and fury that had consumed him from the instant he heard Hermione’s words.

_It’s house-elf magic._

Of course it was house-elf magic. Only a fucking idiot could have missed it, which clearly he was, because he’d stood in Narcissa’s parlor and listened to a house-elf practically admit to the crimes and not seen it. He’d let Draco be arrested and not seen it. He’d _wasted three fucking days_ and not seen it!

Ron stepped into the room, a cup of tea in his hand. “No answer, yet?”

Harry shook his head. Kept moving.

He had sent Narcissa a Patronus the moment they arrived in the townhouse. _Need to meet in private! Send location at once!_ Her continued silence—no Patronus, no floo-call, no owl tapping on his window—was driving him round the twist, though he knew rationally that it might take her some time to arrange such a meeting. To shake off both Lissy and her Unmentionable shadows. To get a message to him undetected.

If she didn’t manage it soon, he’d apparate to her fucking cottage and _kidnap_ her!

The flames in the fireplace suddenly flared green and the wards tingled. Harry spun around to see Narcissa’s head floating in the fire.

“Open your floo, Harry. I’m coming through.”

He froze for a moment, his mind scrambling to grasp all the implications of this request, but then his hand was coming up of its own volition and his magic gathering. He opened the floo with a wordless spell, and Narcissa Malfoy stepped out of his fireplace, brushing soot from her impeccable robes.

“Seal it. Quickly.”

Harry obeyed without hesitation. Then, for good measure, he sent a pulse of magic into the wards, locking them. In a matter of seconds they were, to all intents and purposes, untouchable.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Harry asked, even as he took Narcissa’s hand and guided her over to the magnificent, Chippendale sofa. “You’re not supposed to be in England.”

“Do you want to argue about it, or do you want to tell me what this is all about?” She sank down on the satin-covered cushions and turned huge, hollow, fearful eyes on him.

Her eyes were the only part of her that betrayed emotion, Harry noticed. For Draco, it was different. It was his mouth that betrayed him—that wide, beautiful, expressive mouth—while his eyes remained eternally shuttered.

Pushing away thoughts of Draco that could only gut him when he needed all his wits about him, he sat down beside her on the sofa. He still held her hand. It was cold but steady, like the rest of her.

“Right.” He licked his lips nervously. “I need to know if you ever told Lissy about what Lucius was doing.”

Dead silence met his words. Narcissa stared at him, her face perfectly composed but deathly white, then cut her eyes over to where Ron still stood in the doorway, tea cup forgotten in his hands. Harry caught the direction of her gaze and understood at once.

“You can speak freely in front of Ron. He knows everything.” Then, as she stiffened, he hurried to add, “Draco told him, not me. Please, Narcissa, this is very important. Did you tell her?”

Narcissa swallowed, her long throat visibly working, then whispered, “I didn’t have to. She was there.”

“There? In the Manor?”

“In his room. In _every_ room where…” Another swallow, and her voice died to no more than a breath. “She healed him. Cared for him when I was’t there to do it.” Tears gleamed in her eyes. “Lucius told her that it was punishment, that Draco deserved it, and forbade her to tell me, so she was all he had.”

“And she told you this?”

Narcissa nodded. “After Draco’s visit. After he revealed what had happened.”

Harry let his breath out in a rush. He glanced up at Ron, as the other man drifted over to the nearest chair and sank into it, eyes huge in his blanched face. They exchanged a wondering look, then Harry turned his attention back to Narcissa.

“Does she know now that Lucius was lying? That Draco hadn’t done anything wrong?”

She nodded again, one hand pressed over her mouth and tears gathering in her lashes, threatening to spill over.

“Narcissa, has Lissy been behaving… strangely?” At her frowning look, he went on, “Only, when I saw her, she seemed angry. Hostile, even.”

“She’s been nothing but kind to me.”

“But?” Harry prompted.

“But she was angry when she found out that Lucius had lied to her. She was angry withhim for using her and with herself for not seeing it. She wanted to punish herself for letting those men hurt her dear young master, but I asked her not to.”

“What about the men? Did she say anything about punishing them?”

Narcissa shook her head. Fixed wide, hunted eyes on him. “Harry, are you saying… Do you believe that Lissy…”

“Is the Memory Thief? Yes.”

“ _Salazar_ ,” she breathed, her hand coming up to cover her mouth again.

Steeling himself, Harry asked, “Can you give me any reason why I shouldn’t believe it? Any alibi or circumstance that would make it impossible?”

She shook her head almost frantically.

“Narcissa.” Her eyes flew to his face, huge and tear-drenched. “I need to question her. Will you help me?”

“Yes. Yes, anything.”

He felt the tension leave his body in a rush, replaced by eagerness. Purpose. _Hope._

“Good. We need to get her here—that should be easy enough—and find a way to keep her here. To shut the wards so she can’t disapparate.”

“I don’t know how to do that.”

“There must be a way. The Ministry locks certain locations, like Azkaban, to prevent elves from getting in to free their masters. There must be a way to prevent them from getting out, as well.”

“Will the Ministry aid you in this?”

Harry shook his head glumly.

“Why don’t you ask an elf?” Ron said, breaking into the conversation for the first time. When both Harry and Narcissa turned to him, he shrugged and smiled crookedly. “Kreacher’s a right git, but he’s smart. And he knows all about old traditions and magic. So, if anyone would know…”

“Kreacher!” Harry called, cutting him off.

The old house-elf appeared in front of the sofa with his usual noisy alacrity, bowing to Harry, then even lower to Narcissa. His nose was nearly pressed to his knees when he croaked, “Kreacher welcomes Miss Cissy to Grimmauld Place!”

“Hello, Kreacher,” she said, with a wan smile. “I hope you’ve been well?”

“Kreacher is never well, but Kreacher does his duty. He would be happy to serve the daughter of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.”

“Right, then,” Harry interjected, impatient with the courtesies, “if you want to serve Narcissa so badly, then answer a question for us.”

Kreacher turned reproachful eyes on him and bowed stiffly.

“Is there a way to stop an elf from apparating away from this house?”

Kreacher blinked, taken aback. Then he ventured, “Master Harry does not wish Kreacher to leave his former Mistress’ house?”

“No. I want to bring another elf here and make sure that _she_ doesn’t leave.”

Another blink. Another pause. “Master Harry wishes to imprison a house-elf.”

“Only while we talk to her. And possibly until the Ministry sends someone to question her.”

“And this will serve Miss Cissy?” His eyes instinctively sought Narcissa.

She leaned forward, bringing her smooth face close to the ancient, wrinkled, sagging one turned up to her so imploringly. “Yes, it will, Kreacher, I promise you. We don’t want to hurt Lissy, only to learn the truth so we can bring my son home.”

“Master Draco?”

“Yes.”

“To do this, you must imprison the elf?”

“We must hold her here while we question her, but I’ll be honest with you. Lissy may be in very serious trouble. She may have done things to anger the Ministry and to put Draco in danger, and if that’s the case, she won’t be allowed to go free. But we must find out for certain, and to do that, we need your help.”

Harry bit his tongue, waiting on tenterhooks, until Kreacher finally nodded and croaked, “Kreacher will do this. For his masters, and for the daughter of the House of Black.” His dinner-plate eyes swiveled to Harry. “Kreacher trusts Master Harry to do what is right.”

Harry nodded solemnly, gratitude swelling in him. “Thank you, Kreacher. What do you need to prepare?”

“Kreacher only needs the elf.”

“Right, then. Narcissa? Will you call her?”

Narcissa tilted her head back and called, loudly, “Lissy!”

There was an ear-splitting _crack_ , and Lissy materialized just in front of Narcissa, clean and precise in her crisp, white shift. She bowed low to her mistress, then looked around curiously, taking in the room and the other creatures in it. If she noticed Kreacher snapping his fingers or the discharge of magic in the air, she did not betray it.

“Mistress is wanting Lissy?”

“Yes. Will you sit down with me?”

The little elf continued to gaze around the room, her eyes huge and glowing green. She did not accept Narcissa’s invitation to sit.

“Lissy is never seeing this house before. Lissy is wondering where she is?”

“This is my house,” Harry said.

“Sit down, Lissy, please,” Narcissa urged.

Lissy gave her a dubious look. “It is not being proper for Lissy to sit in Harry Potter’s presence. And Lissy is not knowing the other wizard or the house-elf who is looking at her so rudely. She is not liking this. She is thinking that Mistress should be coming home with her.”

“We can’t leave, yet. Harry needs to talk to you.”

Lissy turned her enormous eyes on Harry, and he saw a distinct reproach in them. “Is Harry Potter bringing Master Draco home, as he promised? Or is he lying to Lissy again?”

Harry heard Ron draw in his breath at her challenging tone. He was beginning to see the Lissy that Harry saw. The Lissy that could commit terrible acts to avenge someone she loved.

“I’m trying to bring Draco home. That’s why we’re here.”

“You is wanting Lissy’s help?”

“Yes.”

She nodded, making her ears flap. “This is good. Lissy is glad.”

“Right. Then tell me the truth, Lissy. Have you been punishing the wizards who hurt Draco?”

She answered without a blink, “Yes, Lissy is doing this.”

The bluntness of her answer caught Harry off guard, knocked the breath out of him. It took him a moment to collect himself, then he asked, “What did you do to them?”

“Lissy is doing to them what they is doing to her young master. She is tying them up and putting things in them that hurt. Then, when they is saying they is sorry, when they is crying and begging for mercy, she is giving it to them.”

“What kind of mercy?”

“She is taking away the hurt. Lissy is knowing it is wrong to be hurting other creatures, so she is making them forget the hurt, once they is sorry. She is also taking Master Draco away from them. Taking him out of their bad, cruel minds, so they is having no part of him.”

“What about the man who died? The one you sealed in Draco’s room?”

Her face darkened. “That man is deserving to die. He is doing terrible, wicked things, hurting Master Draco himself and letting others hurt him, too. Lissy is looking in his mind, as Mistress is teaching her, and seeing all the terrible things he is doing to Master Draco and she is so angry…” She scowled, her eyes snapping with green fire. “She is not sorry the man is dead. She is glad he cannot hurt her young master anymore.”

“Lissy…” Harry broke off to clear his throat and soften the edge in his voice. “Do you realize that hurting and killing those men was wrong?”

She gave him a reproachful look and chirped, “Lissy is not doing wrong things. Those wizards is doing wrong things, and they must be punished. Harry Potter is not punishing them. Other wizards is not punishing them. So Lissy is punishing them. Lissy is doing right.”

She looked around at the circle of faces confronting her and said, firmly, “They is doing wrong. They must be punished.”

Harry took a moment to absorb this—to grapple with the pride, the absolute certainty of right in the little elf—then he asked, “Why didn’t you tell us this before?”

“Harry Potter is not asking.”

“But when the Aurors came for Draco. When they arrested him for your crimes…”

Her eyes widened in horror, cutting him off. “What is Harry Potter saying?!” she squeaked.

“The Ministry believes Draco hurt those men. That’s why they took him away.”

She stared at him in blank horror for a handful of heartbeats, then tears flooded her eyes and began to pour down her cheeks.

“Lissy is not knowing this!” she shrieked. “Mistress is not saying! How is Lissy knowing that wizards is being so wrong and so stupid and so _cruel?!_ ”

“Calm down…”

“Lissy is never hurting her young master! Lissy is loving her young master more than anything! She is only punishing those men for _him!_ ”

Suddenly, before anyone could stop her, she turned and rushed at the hearth, flinging herself onto the stone and banging her head furiously against it.

“ _Lissy is sorry! Lissy is sorry! She is punishing herself! She is the one who did wrong, not her master! Make the wizards give him back!_ ”

“No! Lissy!” Narcissa wailed, surging up off the sofa to reach her.

Kreacher got in before her, freezing Lissy with a snap of his fingers, then levitating her to a softer spot on the rug. The elf was still crouched, tensed, head angled to smash into the floor, but she could not move except to blink. Tears still ran in streams from her horror-filled eyes.

Harry watched all this with a lump of sickness in his stomach. Lissy’s tears were already soaking into the rug, darkening it, and her nose was dribbling across her face. She watched Harry, eyes huge and tragic, as he crossed to her and knelt beside her. He laid a hand on her twig-like arm.

“It’s going to be okay, Lissy. I’ll make them give him back.”

He rose to his feet. Drew his wand. Sent a thick stream of liquid silver light pouring from its tip that formed a stag.

“Go to Kingsley Shacklebolt. Tell him, _Come to Grimmauld Place at once! It’s urgent!_ ”

The stag dipped its great, antlered head, then bounded through the wall and disappeared.

For a beat, no one spoke or moved. Then Narcissa drew close to Harry and murmured, “Shacklebolt? Are you sure?”

Harry nodded and slipped an arm around her shoulders. “He’s Draco’s friend. He’ll straighten this out.”

* * *

What followed was surreal. A fever dream worse than anything that had come before.

Draco heard words coming out of his mouth that he hadn’t summoned, heard himself admitting to things he didn’t know had happened. He watched a quill scribble his words down on parchment—those words that came out of nowhere—then stop when Warwick told it to. When Warwick or MacMillan or one of the guards were forcing the ugly words from his mouth with a wand or a fist.

He was confused. In pain. Desperate to escape, if only into the death he knew awaited him. He tried to fight them, to swallow the words, but they always managed to drag them out. And once they started, they wouldn’t stop. Instead of simply parroting what they said to him, he began to imagine his own crimes, his own horrors, his own depraved longings that he poured out for their enjoyment…

…Lucius coming to him, demanding that his son pleasure him the way he had so many others, and Draco welcoming it, begging for it, always eager to please his father. Lord Voldemort standing by while his Death Eaters took turns with his willing catamite, rubbing himself off and laughing when his come splashed Draco’s face. Professor Snape giving him detention so he could bend him over a desk in the Potions dungeon and bugger him to tears. Harry turning away from his loathsome classmate in disgust until Draco went down on his knees in front of him, pleading for his protection, offering his body in a shameless attempt to entrap the susceptible hero…

This last tore agonized sobs from him. Squeezed hot tears from his eyes. He begged them to let him stop, to say it was enough. Warwick laughed. MacMillan snorted and called him a slag.

“At least Potter will finally see you for what you are. He’ll be free of you.”

“I love Harry,” Draco whispered, eyes clenched shut against scalding tears. “I’d never hurt him.”

“You won’t get the chance,” MacMillan assured him, brandishing the scroll with his damning words filling it. “After this, you won’t ever _see_ him again, much less _touch_ him!”

“He’s… he’s m-my husband. He’ll come for me.”

“You can put _that_ right out of your head! There’s no one coming for you, Malfoy. Except maybe Greyback.”

“Please!” He was weeping in earnest now, tears coursing down his cheeks, sobs shaking his pain-wracked body. “I did what you asked! I s-said… I told you…”

“The _truth!_ For the first time in your miserable life, you told the _truth!_ And now, everyone is going hear it, including the man you tricked into marrying you!” He bent over, bringing his face within a handspan of Draco’s. “You are _fucked_ , Malfoy, and not the way you like it! You are fucked, and no one cares.”

“Harry,” Draco whispered, the sound barely passing his lips.

“You should be calling for Greyback,” MacMillan sneered, his lip lifting in disgust. “He’s your daddy, now.”

“Let me go!” Draco moaned, eyes still shut to block out MacMillan’s looming face and hateful words. “I did what you asked!”

“Take him back to his cell,” Warwick said dismissively, “and tell the prisoners to go a little easier on him. No more marks on his face.”

“No,” Draco gasped, eyes flying open as the guards hauled him to his feet. “Not again! I told… I told you everything…”

Warwick gave him a cold look, then shifted his eyes to the guards. “No sleep yet. Not ’til we have approval of the charges from the Wizengamot. Go on,” he flicked his fingers, “get him out of here.”

“No!” Draco began to thrash and kick, tears running hot down his bruised cheeks. “Not that! Not again! Please! Harry! _Harry!_ ”

They dragged him to the door. He fought them, but he was weak. Starving. Dizzy with exhaustion and pain. Even his voice sounded thin and shrill, a pathetic wail that touched no one, no matter how loudly he screamed.

They were taking him back to Hell. To cold and filth and endless, hateful fucking. To Fenrir Greyback. And he could do nothing to stop them. Nothing to save himself.

“ _Harry!_ ” he sobbed, as they dragged his limp body down the corridor. “ _Harry, I can’t! I can’t! Please!_ ”

* * *

Clive Prewett was a loathsome creature. As much as Robards hated to agree with the Savior on anything, he had to admit that Potter was right about that. Two minutes after walking into the interrogation room where the man sat, he was already itching to hex the sullen scowl off his face.

What was it with these pureblood ponces that made them so unbearable? Malfoy. Prewett. There was nothing to choose between them. Though, if he were being fair, he’d have to admit that Malfoy wore his toffy-nosed entitlement with a decided air, while Prewett was just an insufferable tit.

A night in the cells had turned him from swaggering to petulant, but it had not quite crushed his spirit. He was in full flow, threatening Robards with everything from charges of false imprisonment and cruelty, to a public flogging. Robards took it without a blink, but he was running out of patience. He kept his hands folded atop the file that contained the Skeeter woman’s testimony—the testimony that would send this pureblood ponce straight to Azkaban with his higher-class twin—and counted down the seconds before he let the axe fall.

“I may only be an undersecretary to the undersecretary,” Prewett fumed, “but I have friends in the Ministry! Friends who will not stand by while a power-hungry martinet in red robes tramples on my rights! And my family still has _some_ influence! We may not trumpet our bloodlines or abuse our power, like some families I could name, but we are _still…_ ”

“Yes,” Robards said dryly, “quite.”

Prewett shut his mouth with a snap and glared daggers at the Auror.

“Much as I’m enjoying this little tantrum of yours, I do have other things to do today. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get to it.”

Prewett drew in a tremendous breath, ready to cut loose again, but only got out, “I _will not_ be spoken…” before Robards cut him off again.

“Shut it, boy. I’ll speak to you any way I like. And I’ll tell you right now that your precious family isn’t saving you from this one. You’re going to Azkaban for stealing those memories.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Prewett grumbled, slumping down in his chair and crossing his arms defiantly.

“Rita Skeeter says differently. And since she’s the one who’s cooperating—giving us testimony under Veritaserum and memories of her conversations with you—she’s the one who’ll get the best deal.”

Prewett squirmed uncomfortably, his gaze sliding away. Robards just waited. Let him sweat for a minute.

Finally, he said, “Skeeter.”

“Rita Skeeter. The reporter you’ve been feeding stories on Potter and Malfoy since the New Year.”

“What does she say about me?”

“No, that’s not how it works. You tell me your side of the story, and I’ll decide who to believe.”

“Hmmph.” Then, more sullenly still, “What do you want to know?”

“Whose idea was it to steal the memories?”

“Hers. Sort of.”

“What does that mean?”

“She said she’d pay a fortune for the evidence that had cleared Malfoy with the Wizengamot. She’d been scrabbling for everything she could get on him, like a Niffler after gold, and that was the one thing she couldn’t find. She didn’t even know what kind of evidence it was or where it had come from.”

“But you did.”

Prewett smirked. “Pauncefoot has a big mouth for a woman with so many secrets.”

“And you agreed to sell Skeeter the memories.”

“It wasn’t just about gold. The Public had a right to know how a cock-sucking Death Eater managed to escape prison and waltz into the sunset with the Sodding Savior!”

“So, this was a public service?”

He smirked again, even more annoyingly. “You could say that.”

“What about the theft? How did you know where to find the memories?”

“Pauncefoot keeps all that sort of thing in a warded cabinet in her office.”

“Do you have access to this cabinet, in the normal course of your duties?”

“Not bloody likely.”

“Then how did you get in?”

His sneer twisted into something nastier. More taunting. “With a little help from a friend.”

Robards’ ears pricked at that. “You weren’t alone?”

“Oh, I did it myself, but he taught me how to counter the wards without triggering an alarm.” A grin split his face, baring his teeth. “He was only too happy to help, when I told him what it was for. You see, he wants to bring Malfoy to justice as much as I do.”

“Who was it?”

Prewett’s grin was pure venom. “Edmund Warwick.”

Robards gave a perfunctory knock on the Minister’s door and strode in without waiting for a response. He was deep in thought—brooding, more accurately—and barely noticed a figure in red robes slumped in a chair just inside the door. His eyes found the empty desk, and frustration rose in him.

Why wasn’t bloody Shacklebolt ever where you needed him to be?

“Guv?”

He looked over his shoulder to see MacMillan bounding to his feet. The young Auror looked painfully excited, fairly vibrating with tension.

“What are you doing here, MacMillan? Shouldn’t you be working on that confession?”

“We’ve got it.” He held out a fat roll of parchment, grinning in triumph. “Right here. Warwick sent me to deliver a copy to the Minister.”

“Malfoy’s confession?”

He turned fully around and frowned down at the scroll in the other man’s hand. For some reason, he did not feel any satisfaction or vindication at the news, only foreboding. Prewett’s accusations sat like a bruise in his mind, turning his thoughts bloody and dark.

He took the scroll from MacMillan but did not unroll it.

“Yes, sir,” MacMillan crowed. “You should have heard the filthy little slag. You wouldn’t _believe_ the things he’s done—the Memory Thief crimes aren’t the half of it—and now we have it from his own mouth! Once Potter reads this…”

Robards looked up sharply, frowning, and MacMillan broke off. “You haven’t showed this to Potter.”

“Not yet, but I’ve got a copy for him right here,” he clapped a hand to his pocket, “and I plan to stand there and watch while he reads every disgusting word!”

Robards finally opened the scroll and began to read. He felt his stomach drop.

It was everything MacMillan claimed and more—ugly, filthy, damning—but wrong. So wrong. He felt it, down in his bones. Years in the field, hundreds of interrogations, dozens of hours spent in those cold, brutal rooms beneath Azkaban told him that this was _entirely wrong_.

Malfoy may have said every word. He probably had. But he hadn’t volunteered it. Hadn’t understood it. Hadn’t known where he was, much less what he was saying.

Robards knew it the instant he saw the words scribbled on the parchment. And he knew, with absolute certainty, that Potter must never see this or they were all dead.

“Where’s your partner?”

“Preparing charges for the Wizengamot. He’s filing them today.”

“No, he’s not.” Robards let the parchment roll up and lifted furious eyes to his underling. “Go find him and…”

At that moment, the door swung open.

* * *

Harry stepped into the Minister’s office at Kingsley’s side, with Ron on his heels, only to pull up short when he realized that Robards and MacMillan were there before them. Kingsley checked in surprise, then continued on his way to his desk, nodding to Robards.

“Gawain, I’m glad you’re here. We have news.”

“So do we, Minister!” MacMillan blared, pushing past his superior with blithe disregard for Robards’ warning scowl. “We’ve got Malfoy’s confession!”

“Have you?” Kingsley shot the young Auror a look from beneath lowered brows, then accepted the scroll that Robards reluctantly held out to him. “I see.”

“I think MacMillan’s getting a bit ahead of himself,” Robards said.

“I expect he is.” A smile flashed across Kingsley’s dark face. “Since we have the Memory Thief in custody.”

Robards’ jaw dropped. He looked from Kingsley to Harry to Ron, then back to Kingsley, completely gobsmacked.

“I’ve just been to interview the suspect, and there’s no question. We’ve got our Thief.”

“But Minister!” MacMillan protested.

“Back off, MacMillan,” Robards growled.

Ernie ignored him, too outraged to remember his place or mind his manners. “I don’t know what kind of game Potter’s playing, but we’ve already got our Thief! In Azkaban, where he belongs!”

“That isn’t your call to make, Auror MacMillan,” Kingsley said, with admirable restraint.

“Malfoy confessed to the crimes! I heard him! And that was only the start of it…”

“Shut your mouth,” Harry growled, taking a threatening step toward him.

“Are you really that far gone, Potter?” MacMillan demanded, rounding on Harry. “Are you so desperate to save some slag of a Malfoy that you’ll put an innocent person in the frame to do it? The man’s a murderer! A degenerate! He admitted everything, told us all about his filthy games at the Manor with Daddy and Lord— _eurghhh!_ ”

Harry whipped out his wand and jammed the tip into Ernie’s throat, turning his words to a terrified gurgle. Ernie had a few inches on him, but Harry’s magic poured out of him in a tremendous wave, filling the room and making him seem to tower over the other man. No one dared to move, or even to breathe, as Harry took a step closer to his quarry and pressed his wand still more viciously into the tender flesh beneath his jaw.

“Finish that sentence,” he hissed. “Go ahead. Find out what happens.”

MacMillan gave a kind of whimper and closed his eyes.

“Oi, Mate,” Ron murmured. “Ease up.”

Harry waited another beat, then abruptly stepped back and dropped his wand. His magic subsided into a corona of light around his head and hands, leaving the lingering smell of burnt parchment in the room. His face was hard as adamant. His eyes stayed riveted on MacMillan’s face.

“You tell one more lie about my husband, and I’ll choke you with it.”

“I’m not ly—”

“ _One more_ , MacMillan! One more _word_ about him, and you’ll wish you’d died at Voldemort’s hands rather than face me!”

“Guv!” MacMillan ventured, looking desperately to Robards for help.

The Head Auror just scowled at him and twitched his head toward the door. “Get out of here. Find your partner and tell him to wait for word from me before he files anything with the Wizengamot.”

“But, Guv…”

“ _Now,_ MacMillan! And I don’t want to hear so much as a whisper about that confession, or I’ll roast your bollocks over a slow fire, understood?”

MacMillan gulped. “Yes, Guv.”

“Good.” He held out a hand. “Give me that copy in your pocket.”

Ernie pulled out a scroll and laid it reluctantly across his palm.

“Is this the only one?”

“Warwick has one. Maybe more, by now.”

“Bloody fool,” Robards muttered, then, “Collect the copies—that means _all_ the copies—and put them on my desk. I’ll be down in a few minutes to deal with you.”

“Yes, Guv.”

Another twitch of Robards’ head sent MacMillan scurrying from the room, his tail between his legs.

Harry waited until the door had shut behind him, then turned a challenging glare on Robards. “Are you going to bring more charges against me for threatening a fellow Auror?”

“No.” Robards dropped his eyes to the scroll that Kingsley was now reading. “But I will ask you to stay away from those two until we get this sorted.”

“Fine. If you’re not going to arrest me, then give me a warrant for Draco’s release. I want him out of Azkaban today.”

Kingsley looked up from the scroll. His face looked faintly green beneath the dark brown of his skin. “That would be my pleasure.”

He thrust aside the scroll, and Robards snatched it up, clearly not wanting Kingsley to see any more of it or Harry to get his hands on it. Not that Harry wanted to touch the thing. He’d rather eat dragon dung.

“I’ll deal with this,” Robards said, tucking both copies into his sleeve. “I have reason to believe that Warwick has stepped over the line more than once on this case. And if he forced a confession out of a suspect…”

Harry’s snort of disgust cut him off. “ _If?_ ”

“See that you retrieve all copies,” Kingsley said, as he pulled a fresh sheet of parchment toward him and picked up a quill. “We can’t afford another leak of damaging secrets to the Press, especially ones that are so patently untrue.” The dark eyes found Robards and held him, petrified, for a moment. “As anyone with a grain of sense can see that they are.”

Robards nodded stiffly, gaze skating away.

“I’d be happy to destroy those copies,” Harry said, flexing his fingers and letting his magic spark.

Robards threw him a reproving look, telling Harry that he wasn’t quite ready to surrender yet.

Well, so be it. Harry could still bring down the pillock, if he had to, and right now only Draco’s freedom mattered.

Meanwhile, the Minister had dipped his quill in a crystal bottle full of ink and begun to write. He did so quickly. Neatly. Inscribing a few lines of text without pause or correction. Then he dusted them with sand to dry the ink and brandished his wand.

A flash of light, a surge of power, and it was done.

Kingsley held out the little scroll to Harry, turned up to show the blob of purple wax with his Lynx sigil melted into it.

“There you are, Harry. Go, now. Quickly.”

* * *

They apparated straight to the island, the warrant with its magical seal opening the wards for them and allowing them to pass through the heavy iron portcullis that blocked the main entrance as if it were smoke. Harry was so buoyed up by excitement that he didn’t feel the cold wind off the North Sea cutting through his Weasley jumper or the harsh rock of the island digging into his trainers. He simply ran for the fortress. By the time he reached the guard post, he was moving so fast that Ron, even with his longer legs, could hardly keep pace with him.

He flung open the guard room door, barreled inside and up to the high wooden desk without breaking stride. A guard stood behind it, munching on battered fish and checking off items in a ledger with a moth-eaten quill. He looked up at the thud of the door against the wall, jaw suspended in mid-chew, goggling at the two men in Muggle clothes bearing down on him.

“We’re here for Draco Malfoy,” Harry said by way of greeting. He halted directly in front of the desk, seething with impatience. “What cell is he in?”

“Here, now… What’s the meaning of…”

“Draco Malfoy,” Harry repeated firmly. “Cell number. _Now_.”

“You can’t just barge in here and demand to see a prisoner! How’d you get through the gate, anyway?”

Realizing that the man was going to be no help at all, Harry reached for the ledger lying on the desk in front of him. He spun it round to read it, knocking a paper tray of fish and chips to the floor in the process.

“Hey!” the guard protested. “That’s my lunch!”

Harry’s eyes scanned the lines of script. “This is the visitor log. Where’s the prisoner roster?”

“Malfoy isn’t on the prisoner roster. He’s being held special, for questioning.”

Harry glanced up at the guard and felt a wave of revulsion go through him. The man was about Harry’s height, but much too scrawny for a prison guard—any half-starved Death Eater could easily overpower him—and his ginger beard looked as if it had been chewed by the same moths that had gotten to his quill. But the most unsettling thing about him, the thing that filled Harry with instinctive distrust and dislike, was his eyes. They were red-rimmed, furtive, set in pouchy folds, and they reminded him unpleasantly of Mundungus Fletcher.

“He’s what?”

“He’s being held special. No one sees him except the arresting officers. So you can just go back wherever you came from and quit wasting my time.”

Harry stared the guard down for a moment, then asked, “What’s your name?”

“Rufford.”

“Well, Rufford, we have a warrant from the Minister for Magic that says we can see whoever the fuck we want, and we want to see Draco Malfoy.” He held up the scroll, seal turned out. “So give me his cell number, or go explain to Kingsley Shacklebolt why you wouldn’t!”

The guard stared sullenly at the familiar seal, his brain visibly turning behind his pouchy eyes. “What d’you want him for?”

“What do you care?”

“I need to process him. We’ve got rules, here. I can’t just produce a prisoner for anyone who waves a scroll in my face…”

Harry shot out a hand to grab the front of his robes and drag him half across the desk. Nose to nose with the loathsome man, he ground out furiously, “I’m Harry Fucking Potter, right? And that _prisoner_ is my husband! So you damned well better _produce_ him, or I just might _lose my fucking temper!_ ”

The guard gave a nervous _eep!,_ his eyes skating away. Then he ventured, “Here for a conjugal visit?”

“I’m here to take him home. He’s been released, by order of the Minister for Magic. Any more stupid questions?”

“I… er…” He gulped and made a feeble attempt to pry himself free of Harry’s grip. “I’ll need to see that warrant. Then there’re forms to fill out, and he needs to be deloused, and…”

Harry cut him off impatiently. “I’ll make it easy for you. Forget the forms and the lice and just give me his cell number.”

“I can’t let you take him, just like that!” he protested, real fear in his voice. “It’s against regulations!”

Harry’s scalp prickled in warning.

Draco was in trouble.

He knew it, down in his guts, as surely as he knew that this guard was desperate to keep Harry away from his husband. It wasn’t about lice or forms or proper procedure for releasing a prisoner. It was about what was happening up in that cell. About what Harry would find when he got there.

Draco needed him. _Now._

Adrenaline burned in Harry’s blood, making his heart pound and his magic spark. Pulling the guard still closer, he let some of his simmering magic loose. It poured down his arms and out of his hands, flickering like candle flames over the other man’s skin and making his beard smolder. The man whimpered and tried to pull away, but Harry was too strong for him in every way.

“You’re going to give me his cell number, or I’m going to hex your bollocks up into your fucking throat. _Are we clear?_ ”

The guard stared into his flaming eyes, caught between two inescapable horrors, then suddenly wilted in defeat. He mumbled a string of numbers that Harry recognized as a cell high up in the main fortress tower. Draco, for all that he was being ‘held special’, was being housed in the main prison population. With all the Death Eaters and war criminals.

Fuck.

Harry hauled the man around the desk and jerked his head at Ron. “Let’s go. This wanker comes with us.”

“ _What?!_ ” Rufford shrieked, even as Harry and Ron marched him toward the inner door. “No, wait, I have to start the paper—”

Harry’s fist tightened in his collar, cutting off his air and his words. “Not a fucking chance.”

The two Aurors climbed the endless, zig-zagging stair as quickly as possible, with Rufford stumbling and whinging and dragging his feet between them. Harry conjured bursts of light at every landing to reveal the numbers carved in the stone wall, while Ron snarled at the miserable guard to shut his gob and _move._ Finally, when Rufford started grousing about filing a complaint against them with the DMLE, Ron fired a Stinging hex at him that left him sniveling into his mangy beard. They made better time after that.

Three-quarters of the way up the tower, Harry halted and peered through a low arch at a narrow, dark, dank passage lined with cells on either side. Torches flickered sullenly in stanchions on the walls, sucking up more light than they shed. A rat scurried along one wall, startled by their arrival. Something moved in a nearby cell.

“This is it.”

Ron just nodded and gave Rufford a prod with his wand to get him moving.

As they started down the passage, a frisson of little noises swept along it, moving ahead of them like a ripple across the surface a still pond. Rustling. Scraping. Muttering. The occasional cough. They had passed only a few cells when a rasping voice came out of the darkness at them.

“What’s your hurry, Potter?” A chuckle, like rusty chains dragged over stone, then, “Eager to see your boy?”

This sparked more mutters, laughter and taunts up and down the passage. Harry gritted his teeth and refused to acknowledge them, only pulling harder on Rufford’s arm to hurry him along. The guard would have none of it. He began to flail and shriek, demanding that they let him go, fighting to free himself of their hands, digging his heels into the floor and refusing to budge.

Harry opened his mouth to snarl an order at him, but froze when he saw movement in the shadows farther down the passage. Robed figures—two in the grimy stripes of prisoners, one in a guard’s charcoal grey—slipping out of a cell. They scurried like the rats, clinging to the wall, trying to hide themselves in the darkness, and they were gone before Harry could hope to stop them, but he didn’t care.

He had seen something else. Something sticking out between the bars of the cell the men had just left. Something still and white and sad.

Hands. And beneath them, puddled on the stone like liquid silver, hair.

In the next breath, his muscles unlocked and he began to run. He dropped Rufford’s arm and took off down the passage as if a swarm of Acromantulas were on his heels, leaving Ron staring after him in bewilderment and Rufford gibbering in fear. More ugly laughter and shouts followed him, goading him to lengthen his stride until he was practically flying.

He reached the cell and caught at a bar to stop his headlong rush.

Another voice—this one so familiar that it sent shudders down his spine—growled, “You’ll have to wait your turn, Potter! That one belongs to me!”

Harry ignored it, flinging himself through the open door of the cell and onto his knees beside a still body huddled in the straw. He didn’t even feel the stone tear through his jeans and bite into his skin. He felt nothing but sick horror at the sight in front of him.

It was Draco, of course. He’d known it the instant he saw those hands.

His dragon knelt in the filthy straw, hunched over, unmoving except for the slight lift of his back as he breathed. His wrists were tied to one bar with magical ropes, his head to another with a fistful of his own hair. He was stark naked, and every visible inch of his skin was covered with cuts, gashes, bruises and welts where spells had struck him. His entire left side was black and purple. His bum and thighs were painted with blood.

“Draco?” Harry whispered, reaching out to touch him. His skin was as chill and lifeless as a corpse's. “Draco, please.”

He edged closer to the other man, slipping a hand across his back and around his ribs to hold him tentatively. At the same time, he cast a Warming charm that started to dissipate almost immediately.

“I’m sorry it took so long, Dragon, but I’m here, now. Come on, love. Talk to me…”

“How sweet,” the growling voice from across the corridor said, “but you’re going about it the wrong way.”

Harry glanced up, into a pair of feral eyes staring at him through the bars of the opposite cell. As their gazes met, the prisoner grinned, showing sharp, jagged teeth. Teeth designed for tearing human flesh.

Fenrir Greyback.

“You want him to talk, try buggering him,” Greyback suggested with a leer. “He always cries your name when he comes.”

Before Harry could respond to this, a blast of magic struck Greyback, tossing him to the back of his cell like a leaf in a high wind. Harry heard a thud, then a snarling whine that faded to whimpers. Ron strode up to the bars of Draco’s cell, one hand still locked around Rufford’s arm and a look of grim fury on his face.

“Fucking Greyback. I should have AKed the wanker.” Then his eyes fell on Draco. He dropped to a crouch and stretched a hand through the bars but hesitated to actually touch the silver-gilt head. “Bloody hell, Ferret... Is he alive?”

Harry glanced up into his stunned, sickened face, nodded, then turned his attention back to his husband. He slipped an arm around Draco’s body to draw him closer, casting another largely pointless Warming Charm, and ran his free hand over the ropes that bound his wrists. They vanished. Draco's hands dropped heavily to the floor, and Ron clasped one in his own larger, freckled hand.

“He’s freezing.”

“My Warming charms don’t stick.” Harry looked up and around helplessly. “I need something to cover him with.”

The cell was completely bare, nothing but rotting straw and rat droppings in it. Certainly nothing to wrap a prisoner in. Harry’s own clothing was no more useful. Both he and Ron had left home that morning without robes or coats, wearing nothing warmer than their Weasley jumpers. Harry was about to pull off his jumper in desperation, when Ron once more came to the rescue.

Bounding to his feet, he rounded on Rufford, wand leveled menacingly. “Give me your robes.”

“Huh?” Rufford just stared at him, baffled.

“Your fucking robes! Get them off, or I’ll _cut_ them off!”

“You can’t… You wouldn’t…”

With a twitch of his wand, Ron sent the other man flying back against the wall. Another twitch opened his robes down the front. Stepping in close to jerk the robes off his arms, Ron hissed, “Did you do that to him? Did you beat him half to death and rape him and leave him tied to the bars by his own fucking _hair?!_ ”

Rufford cowered away from his murderous rage, arms up to shield his face from the wand waving dangerously close to it. “I didn’t! I swear, I never touched him! It was only a bit of fun to keep him awake…”

“A bit of fun?! _Bloody fucking hell!_ ”

Ron bundled up the robes and tossed them into the cell, where Harry caught them, but he never took his eyes or his wand off Rufford.

“Who did it?! Who’s idea of fun was it?!”

“Just some… some p-prisoners,” Rufford stuttered, “old friends of Malfoy’s…”

Ron abruptly slammed his arm into Rufford’s throat, stifling his words and pinning him to the wall. Then he jabbed his wand into the side of his neck.

“You want me to kill this toe-rag, Harry?” he barked without taking his eyes off the guard.

“Not yet. See if you can untie Draco’s hair.”

Ron obeyed, pausing only to fire a Binding hex at Rufford to keep him from running.

Meanwhile, Harry shook out the robes and spread them over Draco’s bowed back, tucking them carefully around him. Then he fired off another Warming spell, weaving it into the fabric that wrapped Draco’s chilled body. This time, it held.

In the unexpected warmth, Draco stirred, tucking his hands into his chest and trying to turn his head. It caught on his knotted hair. He gave a grunt of pain, low in his throat.

“Shh.” Harry slipped both arms around him and pulled him close to his own body. “Hold still, just for a minute.”

“Harry…” he whispered, brokenly.

“Yes, love. I’m here. Just hang on while we get you untied…”

But Draco didn’t seem to hear him. He wasn’t speaking to Harry, but calling for him and expecting no answer in return. He tried again to turn his head, twisting his bound hair painfully, and sobbed Harry’s name in a desperate, pleading voice.

“Hold him still!” Ron urged. “He’s pulling it tighter!”

“Cut it,” Harry said thickly. He hadn’t realized that he was crying until he tasted the salt of tears on his lips.

“ _Diffindo,_ ” Ron whispered.

“Fuck,” Harry muttered, closing his eyes so he didn’t have to watch the silver-gilt strands part and fall away. He felt Draco slump to the floor and caught him before his head hit the straw. Then he gently turned his husband onto his back and gathered him up in his arms. Draco’s head fell back over his arm, letting Harry see his face clearly for the first time, and the sight made his throat close up tight with pain.

His nose was broken—swollen, blackened and crooked. Both eyes were blackened as well, the lids swollen shut with bruises. His cheek was slashed open to reveal the white of bone. His lips were split, bloodied, and crusted with substances that Harry didn’t want to think about.

Harry’s tears quickened. He slipped a hand behind Draco’s head to lift it and cradle it against his shoulder, murmuring damply, “I’ve got you, love. I’m here now and I’ve got you.”

At the sound of Harry’s voice, Draco’s silver-blond lashes twitched. “Nngh.”

Harry gave a sob of relief and pressed a kiss to Draco’s forehead. “That’s it, Dragon. Wake up and talk to me.”

“Please…” Draco breathed. “P-please, not again…”

The words went through Harry like a dull blade. Relief turned to horror, and he clutched Draco tightly to his chest, whispering, “No, shh, it’s okay.”

“What do you… w-want me to say…”

“Nothing. Nothing.” Harry began to rock. “You don’t have to say a thing. Shh…”

“Harry?” He looked up to see Ron gazing at him through the bars, his eyes bright with tears. “You’d better get him to St. Mungo’s.”

“Yeah.” He glanced from Ron’s troubled face to Draco’s brutalized one and back again. “I hate to leave you with this mess, but…”

“Forget it, mate. I can handle it. You just get Ferret the fuck out of here.”

Nodding, Harry bundled the loose robes around Draco’s body and cast a charm to lighten it. Then he climbed to his feet, Draco lying like a broken doll in his arms.

“I’ll need the warrant to get through the wards.”

“No worries. I’ll do without.”

“You’ll have to lock the place down.” He edged out of the cell, being careful not to bang Draco’s head or feet against the bars, then paused in the corridor to say worriedly, “Get Neville and Goldstein to help you. Maybe some of the other Young Wands. But don’t let anyone off this rock ’til you’ve found out who’s involved. And go to Kingsley if you need anything, not to Robards!”

“Harry, I’ve got this, already! _Go!_ ”

Harry nodded once, his eyes burning with grateful tears. He gave Ron a look that said everything he didn’t have time to say aloud, then turned and ran for the stairs.

**_To be continued…_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked the chapter. Please let me know what you think!


	12. Behind the Wall of Sleep (NEW)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This chapter has been completely replaced.**
> 
> There are a few bits and pieces that you may recognize (if you read the old one), like Draco's dream, but most of it is new and improved. And the angst is turned up to eleven.
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

_The Daily Prophet Editorial Column_

**_SHACKLEBOLT LOSING HIS GRIP?  
_ ** _—by Barnabas Cuffe_

_…The wizarding public who elected Kingsley Shacklebolt to his position of power and influence have to ask if we’ve been bamboozled. Shacklebolt has built his political career on promises of transparency, integrity, justice and an end to corruption in High Places. But at a time of crisis, when a brutal criminal roamed our streets and attacked with impunity, it took a public protest on his very doorstep to force him into action…_

_…Even now, with the Memory Thief in Auror custody, we get no reports of confessions or a trial. Instead we hear that the Ministry is pursuing criminal charges against a respected reporter for daring to print the truth about those close to the Minister…_

_…The latest word from the Ministry is that Rita Skeeter and Clive Prewett, undersecretary to the undersecretary to the Head of the Special Commission on War Crimes and Reparations, will both serve time in Azkaban for theft, receiving stolen goods, and violating a binding Magical contract._

_These are serious crimes, no doubt, but where is Draco Malfoy—the man targeted by Prewett’s supposed theft and Skeeter’s articles—in all of this? Why are Skeeter and Prewett being rushed to trial, while Malfoy apparently lives in comfort on the Ministry’s Knut, waiting for Shacklebolt to decide what to do with him? Is murder now a lesser crime than speaking Truth to Power? Or is Shacklebolt so afraid of Harry Potter that he won’t dare to move against his jailbird husband?…_

* * *

_The Quibbler_

**_SKEETER TO DO FIVE YEARS_ **

_Notorious yellow journalist Rita Skeeter was sentenced yesterday for her role in the theft of evidence from the Special Commission on War Crimes and Reparations. Skeeter pleaded guilty to receiving stolen goods and violating a Magical contract. She was sentenced to three years in Azkaban for these crimes and to an additional two years for failing to register with the Improper Use of Magic Office as an Animagus._

_The DMLE is not saying how they learned that Skeeter is an Animagus, nor are they revealing what form she takes. But the Quibbler was able to confirm through an unimpeachable source that Skeeter’s Animagus form is a beetle, which seems entirely suitable to those of us who know her. According to our source, Skeeter has been using her transformative powers to spy on—or “bug”, to borrow a Muggle term—unsuspecting targets, insinuate herself into private conversations, and glean material for her hurtful, truth-twisting prose. We cannot be sorry that her wings are finally clipped!_

* * *

“Help!”

Harry appeared in the Emergency Apparition Bay, shouting even as his feet hit the floor. He knew it was unnecessary, that the healers had charms in place to warn them of arrivals, but he couldn’t help himself. He was frantic.

“I need some _help!_ ”

Then he sank to his knees, born down by the deadweight in his arms and his own crippling grief. He clutched Draco’s body close and began to rock, repeating desperately, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

Figures spilled out of the wide, brightly-lit doorway, running toward the kneeling man. The first one reached him and bent over to peer into his face. Harry lifted his head. Blinked tear-blurred eyes into focus. Recognized the lean, dark, handsome man as a healer who’d treated him and his Auror colleagues on several occasions. Healer Rasgotra.

“Potter?” the man said in some surprise.

“Hurry!” Harry begged. “He’s freezing to death! Maybe bleeding… I don’t know… I had to apparate with him…”

“Who?” Rasgotra reached to pull back the robes that wrapped Draco, and his features tightened. “What happened to this man?

“Azkaban,” Harry croaked.

Rasgotra got a look on his face that Harry could only call murderous. Springing upright, he motioned the rest of his crew over and snapped, “Get him into a cubicle. And put a Warming charm on him!”

Two younger healers brandished their wands, plucking Draco’s limp body out of Harry’s arms and transferring him to a floating stretcher. Harry scrambled to his feet. His legs were weak with relief, his cheeks slick with tears, his eyes nearly blinded, but he managed to keep pace with the hurrying group, following them from the Apparition Bay into the stark, sterile whiteness of the Emergency treatment room.

Rasgotra halted him just inside with a hand on his chest. “Go get yourself a cup of tea, Potter. It’ll be awhile before we know anything.”

“I’m not leaving him,” Harry said stubbornly.

“He’s not going anywhere.”

“I’m not leaving him!”

“You’ll only make it more difficult…”

“That’s my husband in there!” Harry said hotly, pointing at the retreating stretcher and its healer escort. “It took me three days to get him out of that place—three days when I couldn’t help him—and I’ll be buggered if I let him out of my sight again!”

“Very well.” Rasgotra dropped his hand and gave a jerk of his head, inviting Harry in. “But you do as you’re told and stay out of our way.”

Harry nodded, even as he crowded past the healer and sprinted over to the curtained cubicle that had swallowed Draco. The space was full of hurrying figures in lime green, each intent on some task that Harry couldn’t—and honestly didn’t want to—decipher. All he cared about was that they were helping Draco. Keeping him alive. Bringing him back.

Slipping around a nurse who was casting some kind of diagnostic spell, he drew up close to the head of the stretcher. Draco lay very still on it, eyes closed, chest barely moving as he breathed. They’d stripped him again, discarding the robe Harry had wrapped him in, exposing the ugly wounds on his blue-white skin to the merciless glare of the lights floating overhead.

Black bruises. Angry red welts and purpling cuts. Dried, crusting, brown blood. So much blood… So much pain…

“I’m sorry, love,” Harry half moaned, as he touched a caressing finger to the crooked, swollen bridge of Draco’s nose, the spell to mend it forming in his mind. “I’m so, so sorry, but I’ll fix it. I promise.”

A hand caught his, pulling it away, and he looked up to find a nurse frowning at him. “Don’t do that, sir.”

“I only want to help. I’m good with noses.”

“Best leave it to us. And Healer Rasgotra needs to document his injuries before we heal any of them.”

“So you’re just letting him lie there and bleed?!” Harry hissed furiously. “You have to do something! Help him! I’ll heal him myself, if I have to!”

“Please, sir…”

“We’re taking care of him, Potter,” Rasgotra cut in. “If you can’t let us do our jobs, you’ll have to wait outside.”

“I won’t leave him here alone!” Harry snarled, for what felt like the thousandth time.

Why didn’t they get it?! Why didn’t they understand?! He had let this happen! He had left his dragon alone in that hideous place, while lunatics tortured him! And now the healers were going to let him die…

“Get to work on his face, Sarah,” Rasgotra said, with a nod at the nurse. Then, to Harry, “Try to breathe. Calm down. I promise you, we’re doing everything we can.”

Harry gulped back an angry response, nodding understanding as he watched the nurse lift her wand.

A flick, a murmured _Episkey_ , and Draco’s nose shifted back into its proper straight, narrow, perfect shape. The swelling shrank. The bruising across the bridge faded slightly.

“You see?” the nurse said complacently. “We’re good with noses, too.”

Harry gave a sob of gratitude and bent to kiss the still-purple skin beneath Draco’s eye, his own eyes clenched tight against fresh tears. “I’m sorry, Dragon,” he whispered desperately. “I’m so sorry.”

Those seemed to be the only words he could say anymore. To his husband, at least. And in that moment, he wondered if he’d ever say it enough times to make a difference.

“You’ll have to step back, now. We need to turn him over.”

Harry edged slightly away from the stretcher. He watched, glowering with as much pain as disapproval, while the healers carefully rolled Draco onto his side, then onto his stomach. At the sight of the wounds on his back, Harry flinched and ducked his head. But the moment the inert body was settled on the stretcher once more, he crowded up close.

His hand came to rest on Draco’s hair and stroked it gently. The silvered lashes lying against blackened skin did not so much as twitch.

“Why isn’t he waking up?” Harry demanded. “Shouldn’t he be awake by now?”

“No,” was all Rasgotra had to say. He was busy with a complex spell that formed glowing balls of colored light above Draco’s back.

“He woke up for a moment in his cell, except… well…”

That earned him a sharp look from the healer. “Except what?”

“He didn’t know me.”

“Not surprising.” He turned back to his work. “Your husband… what’s his name?”

“Draco.”

“Draco is suffering from extreme sleep deprivation. I’d say that he was not allowed to sleep the entire time he was in that cell.”

“Fuck!” Harry muttered furiously.

“Denying a prisoner sleep is an effective form of interrog—”

“I know what it is!” Harry snarled, cutting him off. “It’s fucking torture!”

“Quite.”

Rasgotra waved his wand and summoned a sheet that settled over Draco’s body, covering him from the waist down. Then he lifted it and began doing things with his wand that Harry thankfully could not see.

Unfortunately, it seemed that Draco could feel them. At the touch of the healer’s magic, his breath hitched. He shuddered and tried to recoil from the unwelcome intrusion. Harry put his hands on his shoulders to hold him still, but the grunt of pain Draco uttered made him sob aloud.

“What are you doing?”

“Just keep him still,” Rasgotra replied, attention on his work and not on the obvious distress of his patient.

“You’re hurting him!”

“He’s unconscious. He won’t remember a thing.”

“I don’t care! I can’t… _Fuck!_ ” Harry gasped in shared agony, when he felt Draco stiffen. Bending over to bring his voice and presence closer to the injured man, he shifted his hands to cradle his head, to stroke his hair. “Hang on, love, just hang on. It’s almost over. He’s only trying to help.”

Draco gave a low, strangled cry. His body twitched and thrashed weakly. Rasgotra muttered an order, and another healer pinned Draco’s legs down with a spell. The noise he made in response was little more than a grunt, but Harry could almost hear him screaming inside his own head.

“No, no, shh,” he begged, dropping to a crouch and clasping Draco’s head to draw it closer to his own. “I’m right here, love.” He pressed a kiss between Draco’s knit brows, then another to a healing cut on his forehead. “I’m here. I won’t leave you, and I won’t let anyone hurt you. I swear. I _swear_.”

Draco gave another wordless grunt, then seemed to deflate. He went completely limp, his hand slipping off the stretcher to dangle uselessly. His twitching lashes fell still, and his breathing slowed.

Harry stroked his hair back and pressed another kiss to his forehead. “That’s it. That’s good. Just rest, love.”

“Thank you,” Rasgotra said quietly. “I don’t like restraining a patient, especially not one as badly traumatized as he is.”

“What are you doing to him?” Harry asked, still using his quiet, soothing voice and hoping Draco could only hear the tone, not the words, in his current state.

“Assessing his internal injuries.”

Rasgotra worked in silence for another minute, while Draco lay like a dead thing and Harry petted his hair to keep him calm. Then the healer straightened up and dropped the sheet over his patient’s body once more.

“Sleep deprivation is not the only form of torture they used. He’s fortunate that you found him when you did.”

“So I… I got to him in time? He’s going to be okay?”

“Define ‘okay’.”

“He’s going to live,” Harry amended.

“I believe so. He needs warmth, nourishment and sleep. We can take care of the first two. He has to manage the last on his own. We can’t use potions or spells—that would alter his sleep patterns and slow his healing—all we can do is keep him quiet.” He shot a narrow look at Harry. “That means, you don’t wake him up, no matter how desperate you are to assuage your guilt. You let him sleep and heal.”

Harry just nodded and bent close to his unconscious husband once more. He buried his face in Draco’s tumbled hair and inhaled the scent of it. Even after days in Azkaban, in spite of the grime and blood clinging to the strands, it still smelled like Draco. Smelled like home.

He ran his hand through the long hair lovingly, while sobs shook him and tears dampened the strands. In the wake of his fingers, the dirt vanished and the strands gleamed silver-gilt in the wandlight. He found the chunk Ron had cut out and combed it gently, sending his magic flowing into it.

“At least I can fix this,” he whispered, too low for anyone but the sleeping Draco to hear. “By the time you wake up, it will be perfect.”

*** *** ***

Draco looked almost peaceful.

He lay in the institutional St. Mungo’s bed, in a tiny private room lit by floating candles, wrapped in flannel pajamas, woolly blankets and Warming spells, looking as peaceful as a man could who’d been starved and beaten and raped for days on end. His broken bones were knit, his wounds bandaged, his face clean. And he was deeply asleep.

Harry told himself that this was good. It was what Draco needed. After being deprived of sleep for so long that he quite literally lost his mind, he needed it more than spells or potions or hand-holding, and certainly more than conversation. But what was good for Draco was torment for Harry.

He was not good at waiting. He never had been. Harry Potter solved problems by charging at them head-on, wand blazing, not by sitting around, feeling utterly fucking useless.

Slumping forward in his chair, Harry crossed his arms on the mattress and propped his chin on his forearms. He stared at Draco’s profile—once more perfect, except for the vivid bruises staining his skin—then freed one hand to comb his fingers gently through the other man’s hair. His face softened and his eyes gleamed with unshed tears.

“You’re so beautiful when you sleep,” he whispered soundlessly to his unknowing husband. “I love to look at you.”

The door opened and Harry looked up, hand suspended. When he saw Ron peering round the jamb, he smiled slightly and resumed stroking.

“Hey,” he murmured in greeting.

Ron slipped into the room, shutting the door behind him, and tiptoed up to the other side of the bed. “Hey, Harry.”

“What’re you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at the prison?”

“I’ve spent the last eight hours at that sodding prison. I reckon I can take the time off to look in on my best mates.”

Harry saw that, at some point since he’d last seen him, his partner had donned his Auror uniform. He looked very authoritative—or he would have if he didn’t have a smudge of dirt on his nose. He also looked exhausted.

“How’s Ferret?” he asked, as he bent over to look at Draco.

“Sleeping.”

“The guards said he didn’t sleep the whole time he was in Azkaban. _Three days,_ can you believe it?” Ron shuddered. “I’d go off my head, if I went without sleep for three days.”

“He did. That’s how they got the confession.”

Ron dropped into the chair opposite Harry’s and slumped wearily back in it. “What d’you say we castrate Warwick with a dull knife? I’ll hold him down and you do the honors.”

As appealing as that sounded, Harry couldn’t quite muster a smile. He propped his chin onto his folded arm again and resumed stroking Draco’s hair, eyes dwelling on his face.

“His nose healed up nicely,” he mused softly, more to himself than to Ron. “That’s a relief. Can you imagine how livid he’d be if it stayed crooked?”

“Harry…” Ron ventured.

“I know it’s mental. All the things that could go wrong, and I’m worried about his sodding nose? But at least I won’t have to listen to him whinge about it.”

“He’ll find something else to whinge about. This is Malfoy we’re talking about.”

Harry didn’t respond to that. He knew Ron meant it in good fun, but when he thought about the long, brutal recovery Draco faced and all the very real reasons he had to complain, he couldn’t find any humor in it. Instead, he changed the subject.

“So what’s happening with the case? Have they arrested Warwick and MacMillan?”

“I don’t know, but you can ask Kingsley. He’s out in the hallway, waiting for you.”

Harry just grimaced at that. He couldn’t be arsed to deal with the Ministry right now, even in the person of one of his oldest friends.

“And, er, my mum’s with him.”

That got his attention. His head came up sharply. “Your mum’s here? Why didn’t you say so? And why is she waiting around outside?”

“Because she wasn’t sure she was welcome.”

“What are you talking about?! Of course she’s…”

Then it hit him. Christmas. His cheeks flushed a dull red.

“I’m not angry with her, Ron.”

“And how is she supposed to know that, seeing as how you haven’t spoken to her since the Christmas Eve Debacle? Even Malfoy made it over to the Burrow for tea, but not you, her favorite son.”

“I’m sorry. I just haven’t… Only, things have been so…”

“I get it, all right? But Mum doesn’t know what you and Ferret have been going through. She thinks you’re punishing her for being a git to your husband.”

“Well, I’m not, and now’s as good a time as any to tell her.” Harry pushed himself to his feet and headed for the door. “You’ll look after Draco for me, yeah?”

Ron slid down in his chair, yawning theatrically. “We’ll have a kip together.”

Harry smiled fondly and pulled the door open, calling, “Molly?”

She was standing right across the dimly-lit hall, in close conversation with Kingsley Shacklebolt. At Harry’s hail, she turned and started toward him, a hopeful smile blossoming across her face. Harry crossed to her in two strides, swept her up in a hug, and gave a sob of relief.

“Molly! I’m so glad you’re here!”

“Harry, my dear!” She felt him draw in another sobbing breath and patted him lovingly on the back, murmuring, “Hush, now. Hush. Just tell me what I can do.”

“Nothing. It’s enough that you came.”

“Nonsense.” Pushing slightly away, she cupped his face in her hands to study it. Then she sighed and brushed the fringe out of his watering, red-rimmed eyes. “You foolish boy. After all these years, you still don’t know how to ask for help.”

“I don’t need anything, honestly. I’m just waiting for word from Draco’s healer that I can take him home.”

“Home?” Her brows flew up. “To your cottage?”

“Do you think that’s wise, Harry?” Kingsley interjected, his deep voice full of concern. “After what he’s been through?”

“They’ve healed the worst of it. What he needs now is rest and quiet to finish healing on his own. He can get that anywhere.”

“Perhaps, but isn’t hospital the safest place for him?”

“Not once word gets out that he’s been released from Azkaban,” Harry said darkly. “I want him safely away from here before that happens, behind my wards where no one can touch him! I’ve explained to Healer Rasgotra, and he’s promised to discharge him as soon as he thinks it’s safe.”

Kingsley shook his head, frowning. “I don’t like this. I feel responsible, considering that he was in Auror custody when this happened…”

“If you really feel responsible, you’ll help me protect him. Sit on the story as long as possible. Give him a little more time before the entire wizarding world comes after him with torches and pitchforks!”

“I’ll do what I can, but we’ve had little success with keeping Ministry business out of the papers.”

“Then I’ll just have to get Draco to the cottage tonight, no matter what the healer says.”

“You’ll do no such thing!” Molly objected.

“It’s the best place for him.”

“That lonely little cottage? Don’t be ridiculous. You’ll both come to the Burrow, where we can look after you properly.”

Harry gaped at her for a moment, completely taken aback, then spluttered, “What?”

“The Burrow. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“It’s not… I mean, I couldn’t!”

“Certainly you can. Think about it, dear. How will you manage, all alone in Gloucestershire in Winter, with your wards locked down so no one can reach you in an emergency? And what will you do if you have to leave on Ministry business? Who will look after Draco while you’re gone?”

“Kreacher will help,” Harry offered.

“That miserable house-elf is no substitute for family,” Molly retorted. “And that’s what you have at the Burrow. Family.”

“But… the wards…”

She huffed and rolled her eyes. “You’re not the only wizard in Britain who can cast decent wards, young man! Ours were good enough to protect you from Lord Voldemort, so I think they’ll do to keep out a few reporters! In fact, I’ll pop home now and have Arthur get to work on them.”

“Molly, you don’t have to do this,” Harry said seriously. “I know you don’t want a Malfoy in your home.”

“He’s not a Malfoy anymore, is he?” She gave him a severe look, then broke out in a twinkling smile. “After raising seven of my own, I think I can handle one Malfoy-turned-Potter. He can’t possibly be any worse a patient than Fred or George!”

“That’s not it. I… I don’t want you to feel obligated.”

“ _Pfft!_ Don’t be silly.” She kissed him and patted his cheek. “Just you sit quietly with Draco, hold his hand so he knows you’re close by, and leave the rest to your family. We’ll take care of everything.”

Then, with a brisk nod and a “Kingsley,” for the Minister, she bustled away.

Harry watched her go in blank dismay, unable to summon an argument that would stop the juggernaut of Molly on a Mission.

“She’s right, Harry,” Kingsley said. “If you really mean to pull Draco out of hospital so soon, you’ll need some help taking care of him. And I meant to tell you…”

Harry turned a sharp gaze on him. “What?”

“Kreacher will be otherwise occupied for the foreseeable future.”

His eyes narrowed. “Occupied how?”

“Keeping Lissy contained.”

“Oh.” Harry digested that, frowning. “He can’t just set the wards and leave them?”

“Not reliably. And we want her calm, rational, not in a panic at being imprisoned alone in a strange house. That’s why I’ve asked Kreacher and Narcissa Malfoy to stay with her. Hermione Granger, as well, though that’s more for legal reasons than practical ones.”

“Narcissa is staying at Grimmauld Place? What about Draco? He needs her as much as Lissy does!”

Kingsley smiled kindly at him. “Draco has you.”

“He needs his mother, too,” Harry said stubbornly.

“He’ll have her, as soon as possible, but Narcissa and I agree that her place is with Lissy right now. Draco will be perfectly safe with you and the Weasleys, while Narcissa keeps Lissy in hand. It’s not wise for her to be seen out and about in Wizarding Britain, in any case. If you’re trying to keep Draco’s presence in St. Mungo’s a secret, a visit from his high-profile, very recognizable mother is not the smartest idea.”

“I suppose so,” Harry said grudgingly.

Kingsley clasped his shoulder. “She sends her love. Or she would, if Narcissa were the sort of woman to say such things.” That almost made Harry laugh, in spite of the ache in his chest. “Suffice it to say that she is doing what she thinks best—for Draco, for Lissy and for you—and she wouldn’t leave her only son in any hands less trustworthy than yours.”

“Hmmph,” Harry grunted uncomfortably.

Kingsley squeezed his shoulder, gave it a slight shake, then let it go. “May I see Draco?”

Harry shook his head. “He’s asleep. He won’t be answering any questions, and he doesn’t need to be gawked at.”

“I am not a gawker, Harry,” Kingsley said in gentle reproach. “I’m a friend.”

Harry flushed. “I know that. And I appreciate it, honestly, but Draco isn’t up for visitors.”

The Minister nodded understanding. “Family only, then.”

“Yes.”

“Very well. Get back to your husband, Harry, but don’t disappear. Stay in touch, let me know when Draco leaves hospital, and keep me apprised of his progress. I may not be family, but I care very much what happens to him, and I need to know for official reasons, as well.”

Harry nodded, his face grim.

So Draco was now Exhibit A in the criminal case against half the DMLE. As if being the most hated man in Wizarding Britain were not enough. Everyone from Gawain Robards to the Chief Warlock would be clamoring to interview him, and Harry would have to protect him from them.

He devoutly hoped that Arthur’s wards were up to the challenge.

Leaving Kingsley with a murmured farewell, Harry slipped back into Draco’s hospital room. He expected to find his husband and his best mate snoring comfortably. What he found instead was Ron on his feet, bending over the bed, while Draco tossed and sobbed and muttered in it.

Ron glanced over his shoulder at the sound of the door opening. “Brilliant. You’re here. He’s having a nightmare, and I wasn’t sure if I should wake him.”

“No!”

Harry quickly circled the bed and sat down on its edge, close by Draco’s shoulder. He rested a hand on his tousled silver-gilt head. Draco tried to roll away, grunting in pain.

“Shh, it’s all right. Everything’s all right,” Harry murmured.

“Wouldn’t it be better to wake him up?” Ron asked worriedly. “He might hurt himself, thrashing around like that.”

“He’ll be fine. Won’t you, love?” He stroked Draco’s hair and leaned down to drop a kiss on his damp forehead. “You know you’re safe with me. Nothing can hurt you. That’s it, quiet now. Shh…”

Another light kiss, another stroke of his hand, another soft word, and Draco began to calm. His breathing evened out. His face relaxed, the pain in it easing. He twisted onto his side, curling into the warm blankets, and went slowly inert. And all the time, Harry petted and soothed him, while Ron stood over the bed frowning.

Finally it was clear that Draco had sunk back into a deep sleep, out of reach of his dreams. Harry gave his hair a last stroke and rested his forehead against the other man’s for a long moment. Closing his eyes, he breathed a silent sigh of relief.

“That was a bad one.”

Harry looked up to meet Ron’s troubled gaze. “They’re all bad.”

“Can’t they give him a potion to stop the dreams?”

“He needs to sleep and dream normally. That’s how his mind heals.”

“Yeah, but…”

His words died out as his gaze fell to the man in the bed. After a quiet moment, he dropped back into his chair and slumped forward, elbows on his knees, hands scrubbing at his wan, dirt-smeared face.

“Fuck, Harry. Do you really think sleep and a few dreams are going to fix this?”

“Not all of it. But at least, when he wakes up again, there’s a chance he’ll know me.”

“Yeah.” Another long, weary silence, then, “Hermione’s moved into Grimmauld Place with that ruddy elf, did you know?”

“Kingsley mentioned it.”

“She’s in full-on Savior mode. Learned it from you, mate.”

Harry quirked a humorless smile at that. “You can’t blame her crusading spirit on me. She was born with it.” His smile died. His eyes darkened. “Sometimes I think she cares more about those fucking elves than she does about us.”

“Hey, that’s not fair. She told you about the elf magic, didn’t she? And she stayed away while you interrogated Lissy.”

“Only because I threatened her. In _both_ cases. If it was up to her, we’d still be staring at that Magical scan, wondering what the buggering fuck it was!”

Ron shook his head. “She loves Ferret. She wouldn’t leave him in Azkaban, even to protect a house-elf. Only, she’s a woman of strong principles, and she has to think things through before she acts. That’s really the main difference between you two. You both do whatever the fuck you think is right, with no thought for the cost to the rest of us, but you go at it from opposite ends. Hermione analyzes everything to death before she makes a move. You just close your eyes and jump. Either way, you both end up buried to the eyeballs in it.”

Harry gazed at him in something approaching wonder. It was so easy to forget how smart Ron was, how insightful, when he blasted through his days like an Erumpent in heat, all noise and chaos and broken crockery. He pretended that nothing mattered to him but his next meal, while behind his mocking grin, he was perceiving and analyzing the world in a way few people ever realized.

“I’m sorry I said she didn’t care about us,” Harry finally said. “That wasn’t fair.”

Ron shrugged, always ready to see things from the other side. “She picked the wrong moment to go all righteous on you. I get it. But she’d never deliberately hurt you or Ferret.”

“What about you? How long is she going to be tied up with Lissy? Who’ll look after you and Rosie?”

He shrugged again. “Who knows? We’ll manage. I can make my own bloody breakfast, but only Hermione can single-handedly save the house-elf species!”

Harry chuckled—the closest he’d come to actual laughter in longer than he could remember—and propped his chin on his forearm. His gaze dwelt longingly on Draco’s pale face, half hidden in the pillow. His fingers combed gently through long, gleaming hair, pouring magic into the severed strands to speed their growth. Draco gave no sign that he knew Harry was there, but he slept undisturbed, and that was all his faithful husband needed for now.

Draco wasn’t in pain, and that was enough.

*** *** ***

The corridors of St. Mungo’s were nearly deserted at this hour, so no one noticed the disembodied feet trailing after Molly Weasley as she strode through them. Harry stayed as close to her as he dared, hoping that anyone who caught sight of his trainers would mistake them for a flick of her robe or a trick of the light. Draco lay quietly in his arms, still deeply asleep, wrapped in Warming spells and a Weightlessness charm, unaware that his husband was sneaking him out of the hospital under cover of darkness and an invisibility cloak.

They reached the lifts without attracting attention and stepped into the first one that arrived. It was empty, so Harry didn’t bother to keep his voice down when he asked, “Does Arthur know we’re coming?”

“I sent a Patronus to warn him.”

“Are you sure you want to do this, Molly? We can still go to the cottage.”

“Don’t be silly. Hush, now, and stay close. There’s bound to be a crowd in the reception area.”

The lift came to a stop and dinged politely. When the doors opened, Molly stepped out and moved purposefully past the Welcome Witch, weaving a path through the rows of rickety wooden chairs, making for the fireplace in the far wall. Harry stayed close on her heels, hoping that the scattering of sick or injured people huddled in clumps about the room were all too miserable to notice the extra set of feet shadowing her. He successfully dodged several pairs of sprawled legs and a child’s Knight Bus toy that was careening down the aisles as madly as the real one. He stumbled once, his foot landing in a basket of writhing tentacular plants that sat on the floor, but when the witch who owned the basket jerked it closer to her chair and glared her annoyance, she was looking at Molly rather than Harry.

Finally, they were safely through the obstacle course and standing in front of the hearth. Molly waited until she felt Harry bump gently against her shoulder, then she took a handful of grey powder from the pot on the mantelpiece.

“You boys go first,” she said under her breath. “I’ll be right behind you.”

“Right,” Harry whispered in reply.

She tossed the powder into the fire, turning the flames green. Harry immediately dropped Draco’s feet to the floor and stepped into the fireplace, holding the unconscious man against his chest as if they were dancing. As Harry stepped past her, Molly tugged the cloak off of them, bundling it up in her hands.

“The Burrow!” Harry called. The last thing he saw as he spun away was a handful of faces turned in his direction, staring in bewilderment.

Arthur was waiting for them. He broke out in a smile at the sight of the two men, then reached in to help Harry navigate the low mantelpiece.

“Watch you head, my boy,” he chided, as he half-lifted Draco from Harry’s arms and lowered him down to sit on the hearthrug.

Harry dropped to a crouch beside Draco, supporting him and cradling his head against his shoulder. Draco was still asleep but he looked faintly green, and when Harry shifted his hold, he sighed in pain. Harry instinctively pulled him closer, petting his hair and trying to soothe him.

“Shh. It’s all right, love.”

“He looks in a bad way,” Arthur said, frowning anxiously down at the unconscious man. “Best get him up to bed.”

Harry resolutely swallowed his stomach—he invariably got sick traveling by floo—and refreshed the Weightlessness charm so he could lift Draco without jarring his many injuries. Then he scooped Draco up in his arms and rose to his feet.

“Where do you want us? Ron’s room?”

“No, no, that won’t do at all…” A whoosh from the fireplace announced Molly’s arrival and cut him off before he could tell Harry where to go. “Ah! There you are, my dear! The boys arrived safely, you see.”

“All right then, My dears? Oh, but of course, you need to know where to go, don’t you? Arthur, just you lock the floo and make sure everything’s shut up tight for the night, while I get Harry and Draco settled. Come right this way. I’ve put you boys in our room…”

“What?” Harry tried to hang back, but Molly had him by the arm and was steering him toward the door. “No. We can stay in Ron’s room.”

“Nonsense. That’s all the way at the top of the house, much too far away, and not nearly large enough for two grown men. Ours is just one flight up, with a nice big bed and an attached loo…”

“I couldn’t, Molly, honestly,” Harry insisted, even as he let her drag him up a flight of stairs. “I wouldn’t feel right pushing you out of your own room.”

“You want Draco to be comfortable, don’t you? Here we are.” She flung open a door and guided Harry through it, deaf to his protests. “Now, stop your fussing and get that poor boy to bed.”

The master bedroom was, like every other room in that ramshackle warren of a house, small and shabby and erratic, with no obvious logic or sense about it, but it was also welcoming in a way only the Weasleys could manage. A large fire crackled merrily on the hearth. Candles flickered, warm and comfortable, on every flat surface. The old furniture glowed with long use and many polishings. Quilts worn soft and smooth with age covered the wide feather bed.

Harry took one look at it and surrendered.

He wanted to be in this room. Wanted to sleep in that bed. Wanted to curl up with Draco under those lovely quilts and hold him ’til the pain left his body and the nightmares fled.

His feet carried him over the faded rugs to the bed. Molly was already there, peeling back the blankets for him so he could lower Draco gently onto the mattress. Together, they settled their patient against the fat pillows and pulled the quilts up to his shoulders.

“There, now,” Molly whispered, “he looks better already.”

He did look better. He hadn’t woken, hadn’t actually moved, but he obviously knew that he was someplace soft and warm and safe. His entire body seemed more relaxed, and the furrow between his brows was gone.

If Harry squinted just a little, he could imagine that he was smiling in his sleep.

Bending down to plant a kiss on Draco’s forehead, Harry murmured, “We’re home, now, love. You can rest.”

“Both of you can,” Molly said matter-of-factly. “When was the last time you closed your eyes, young man?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Then just you climb into that bed with Draco and get a proper night’s sleep.”

“I wish I could, but I have to stay awake in case he needs anything.”

“What do you imagine he’s going to need in his condition? Besides, that’s what Arthur and I are here for.”

She patted his shoulder, pushing him down to sit on the edge of the mattress as she did so. He was so wrung out and weak that his legs folded at the first touch.

Smiling wanly up at her, he murmured, “Thanks, Molly. For everything.”

“Oh, hush!” She waved away his gratitude, patted him again, and turned for the door. “I’ve set a charm so all you have to do is call my name and I’ll hear. Anything else you say will be strictly between you and your husband.”

She paused in the doorway to smile at him, then bustled away.

When she was gone, Harry started stripping off his clothes. He fumbled with buttons and zips, clumsy in his exhaustion, but the promise of a soft bed and Draco sleeping beside him kept him at it until he’d shed the last piece of clothing. Dropping his socks on the floor, he crawled beneath the quilts and burrowed into a down pillow.

“Good night, Dragon,” he mumbled.

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than he tumbled into sleep.

*** *** ***

Draco was dreaming.

_Detention in the Potions dungeon. Snape furious, glaring from the doorway, ordering, “Clean every drop! And no magic! I’ll be back in two hours to check on your progress, and I had better be impressed, unless you want to spend every Friday evening mopping up after your incompetent classmates!”_

_The door slamming. Leaving him alone with a mass of green goo splashed over tables and floors._

_Alone with Potter._

He knew this dream.

He’d had it many times before, on those nights when he drugged himself into unconsciousness so he could sleep and dream of Harry Potter.

_Green eyes glaring at him across a begrimed table. Pale cheeks flushed with anger._

_“Bloody Snape! It wasn’t our fault Seamus’ cauldron exploded!”_

_“Why do you let him get to you, Potter?”_

_“He’s a right foul git and a rubbish teacher!”_

_“He just knows how to wind you up. And he enjoys watching you fly into a rage.”_

_“He’s not the only one.” The green eyes fastened on him now, seeing only him, stripping away his mask and destroying his defenses. “Don’t you ever get tired of winding me up, Malfoy?”_

_“Why would I, when I do it so well?”_

_He says the words because he knows it’s expected. It’s their ritual. But he’s thinking, ‘_ How else would I get your attention, Potter?’

_And maybe Potter hears him. Understands. Because the next words out of his mouth are the answer he has never dared to hope for._

_“You know you don’t have to torment me to get my attention. You only have to exist.”_

_“Enamored of the thing you can never have?”_

_“Never?” Potter is leaning over the table, closer and closer, almost touching him. “Never is a long time, Malfoy.”_

_Then Potter’s lips find his and he forgets how to breathe._

_It’s gentle and hesitant and incredibly hot. It’s every fantasy he’s ever had, compressed down into that moment. That place where their bodies cling together. That wetness on his lips when Potter’s tongue slips out to caress them. Then his lips are opening and that tongue is between them and his own is straining to meet it and he doesn’t know which way is up or where his hands belong or how all the blood in his body got down to his cock so fast._

_Potter doesn’t really know how to kiss, but then, neither does he so it’s all right. Quidditch-callused hands grab at his shoulders, dragging him half across the desk, clutching and pulling at his hair, while lips crash into his and a tongue searches his mouth._

_He whimpers. He can’t help it. His cock is so hard it hurts and his brain is starved for oxygen. He’s dizzy and hot and aching and now… now he’s wet. That thing Potter does with his teeth and his tongue makes his cock leak._

_Potter lunges around the desk, gets right up close to him, body pressing against his. There’s something magnificently hard in his pants. He pulls his mouth away to mutter, “I’ve waited years to do that.”_

_“What took you so long? I thought Gryffindors were supposed to be brave.”_

_There it is. The snark. The instinctive antagonism that defines and protects them. He’s dredged it up, somehow, even when all he really wants to do is tear his clothes off and spread himself out under Harry Fucking Potter._

_“Brave, not suicidal.”_

_“I don’t want to kill you, Potter.” Here it is. His chance to say it and cross the gulf between them, once and for all. “Just fuck you.”_

_Then Potter is on him, kissing him again, pushing him back against the desk and fumbling with his robes. He’s ready for this. So ready. Aching to lift and spread his knees, to hook his legs around the other boy and pull him in…_

_But now the kiss is wrong—rough, bruising, sour-tasting. The teeth that nip at him tear his lips, filling his mouth with blood. The hands that find his bare skin paw at it, nails catching and scrabbling._

_He whimpers, trapped somewhere between fear and want._

_He pulls back, seeking a moment of clear air, and gasps, “What about Snape?”_

_Potter laughs. The sound is harsh and grating. “He can watch. Maybe take a turn.”_

_His eyes snap open to gaze up at the face he has adored as long as he can remember. Green eyes gaze back at him—fierce and full of heat—but the face that holds them is nearly swallowed by filthy, matted hair that seems to crawl up its cheeks. The mouth stretches in a smile, sores at its corners cracking and oozing, to reveal jagged teeth._

_Horror floods him. Terror. Sickness. He twists away from the vision, screaming a protest, only to feel a clawed hand fisting in his long hair. Pulling him away from the desk. Flinging him forward to sprawl on stone._

_“On your knees, boy, and open wide!”_

Draco awoke with a start, bolting upright, shaking and sweating in panic. Pain spiked between his ribs, and he slumped sideways onto the mattress, biting his lip to stifle his gasps. Then he felt something move in the darkness beside him, and he instinctively rolled away from it, tumbling off the side of the bed in a tangle of bedclothes and flailing limbs.

* * *

The shifting of the mattress under him brought Harry instantly awake. He lay still for a moment, blinking to bring his eyes into focus, trying to remember where he was. Then he reached for the man who was supposed to be beside him in bed. He wasn’t.

“Draco?” He rolled over and pushed himself up on one arm. “Are you all right?”

The thud of a body hitting the floor was followed by a grunt of pain. Harry scrambled toward the sound, hands out to catch the shadowy figure now struggling up beside the bed.

“Draco!”

“Nngh! No!” Draco jerked back at his touch, falling to the floor again.

Harry was off the bed in a flash, bending over him, pulling him to his feet. “Okay. You’re okay. It’s me, love, Harry.”

Draco was shaking with a vicious combination of cold and terror, fighting to free himself of Harry’s grasp but unable to stand without his support. He managed to pull away, then staggered and started to fall. Harry caught him in his arms and gathered him up against his chest, gritting his teeth in agony when Draco whimpered, “Please, no. I can’t. _Please…_ ”

“Hush. No one’s going to hurt you.” He edged toward the mattress and the comfort of all those quilts. “Come back to bed and get warm.”

“No!” Draco shuddered and hung back, crying, “Not that! Please! _Anything but that!_ ”

“Draco…” Harry tightened his grip, even as Draco began to thrash and moan.

“Not the bed! Not again!”

“Okay, no bed. Just calm down.”

“ _I can’t do it! I can’t!_ _Harry, help me!_ ”

“Draco, _stop!_ ” Locking Draco to his own body with one arm, Harry freed his other hand to catch his head. Force him to hold still. “Look at me!”

He conjured a ball of wandlight and set it floating above them. In the silver-blue glow, Draco’s eyes fixed on his face. They were huge, pupils swallowed by black, drenched in tears and glazed with panic. Harry shifted his hand to cradle the other man’s face more gently but did not let him turn away.

“It’s me. It’s Harry. I’m right here.”

Draco’s lips began to tremble.

“I’m right here, love, and I’ve got you. You’re safe, I promise.”

After a long, tense moment, Draco seemed to come into focus. He blinked. His gaze tracked up to the lightning bolt scar on Harry’s forehead. He ventured, roughly, “Harry?”

Then, in the next breath, his eyes rolled up in his head and he dropped like a bag of rocks.

“Fuck!” Harry swore, grabbing the crumpling body before it could hit the floor. “Draco?”

He got no answer.

Scooping Draco up in his arms, he looked wildly around for inspiration. The bed was just behind him, beckoning, promising warmth and comfort and blissful sleep. But not for Draco. Not now. So, tearing his eyes away, Harry headed out of the room in search of a place where his husband could sleep in peace.

A place without beds.

*** *** ***

The next time Draco awoke, it was to the soft murmur of voices. He drifted slowly up out of the darkness, untroubled by ugly dreams or pricks of fear, wrapped in warmth and contentment and a deep feeling of security.

Words took shape. He began to understand what he was hearing.

“…if you’re sure, dear, but you know you’re welcome to stay in our room. You aren’t putting us out.”

“Draco doesn’t do well with beds. He’ll be more comfortable here.”

Drawn by the sound of his own name, he yawned and rolled onto his side, fetching up with his nose buried in fabric. Musty, slightly rank fabric, with a familiar scent to it that formed a pool of warmth in his chest.

It smelled like Harry.

At his movement, the voices broke off. Then one of them said, “It looks like he’ll be awake soon, so I’d better see about breakfast. I expect you’re both hungry.”

“Thanks, Molly.”

That one came from right against him, rumbling comfortably by his ear. He opened his eyes, blinked to bring them into focus, and found himself staring at a very wrinkled and grubby t-shirt. A hand clasped the back of his head, then smoothed his hair.

“Hey,” the comforting voice said, “welcome back.”

He turned his head to look up at its source. Green eyes smiled down at him. He tried to smile back, but his face was stiff and sore, his muscles uncooperative. The most he could manage was a twitch of his lips that pulled uncomfortably at the fresh scars that thickened them.

“Hey.”

Even his voice sounded stiff. As if he hadn’t used it in a very long time. Or had only used it for screaming.

“How are you feeling?”

Draco didn’t answer, just stared up at him, taking in the details of his face. The weariness. The lines of pain and worry. The dark scruff of beard and the hollows beneath his eyes. He looked so incredibly tired. But in spite of that, his eyes were alight with happiness and his lips quirked up in the smile Draco remembered so well and loved to kiss away so much.

He looked just like Harry. But that wasn’t possible… was it?

“Are you real?” he finally rasped out.

That lovely smile widened and the already brilliant eyes brightened with tears. “I’d kiss you to prove it, but I can’t reach you down there. I’m not that flexible.”

Draco digested that, only now absorbing the fact that he was lying with his head in Harry’s lap. That wouldn’t do. Not if he wanted to prove his husband’s reality. Slowly and carefully, all too aware of the weakness and pain in every part of his body, he levered himself up on his hands and looked around.

He was sitting on a sagging sofa in a shabby, comfortable room. A fire burned on the hearth. Winter sunlight poured through the windows. A thick layer of old quilts covered his legs and lay around his waist, where they’d fallen as he straightened up. And the sound of pots clattering, together with the smell of sausages frying, carried down the hallway from a distant kitchen.

The Burrow.

Draco turned to face the man sitting at one end of the sofa. “How did I get here?”

“I brought you here from St. Mungo’s.” Harry cocked his head curiously. “Don’t you remember anything?”

“I…” He broke off and frowned.

He remembered a dream—the Potions dungeon and Harry’s lips on his—but that was only a fantasy, and it had gone wrong. So terribly wrong.

…Harry’s eyes in Greyback’s face …clawed hands tearing at his skin …his knees striking stone as a voice ordered him to open wide…

He shuddered. Shook his head.

Harry reached over to stroke and clasp his arm. Draco looked down to see that he was dressed in hospital pajamas. Harry’s hand looked brown and strong and very real against the white flannel.

“I was with you all night, first at the hospital, then here. You woke up once because of a nightmare, but you weren’t really yourself.”

“There was a bed, and a… a man in it…” He shuddered again.

“That was me.”

Draco peered at him, scowling, afraid to believe. “You?”

Harry nodded. His hand moved up and down Draco’s arm in a soothing rhythm. “I brought you out here, away from the bed, so you could sleep. You did better after that. No more dreams.”

“I… I don’t…”

“Draco, it’s all right. I promise.”

Draco swallowed painfully, feeling tears gather in his eyes. “I don’t understand how I got here.”

“It doesn’t matter, now. All that matters is that you’re safe with me.”

The tears slipped through his lashes and down his face. “Harry,” he whispered, testing the name on his tongue.

“Shh.”

On that soft whisper, Harry leaned forward to kiss him. Their lips touched, hesitantly at first, then more firmly, then open-mouthed and hungry. In the middle of the kiss, Harry wrapped both arms around Draco and pulled him across his lap. Draco leaned willingly into his chest and, when Harry finally broke the embrace, let his head fall onto the taller man’s shoulder.

“What do you think?” Harry whispered into his hair. “Am I real?”

“Fuck. Harry.” He slipped his arms around Harry’s waist, holding on as tightly as his weakened state would allow. “If you’re not—if this is a trick or a dream—please just kill me and be done with it. I can’t go back.”

“You won’t.” Harry began to stroke his hair again, in between kisses dropped on the top of his head. “You’re never going back there and you’re never leaving me. You’re safe, Dragon. You’re home. And I’m never letting you go again.”

Overcome by relief and gratitude and a terrible, aching hope, Draco let the last of his defenses fall, curled up in his husband’s arms, and wept.

**_To be continued…_ **


	13. Against My Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I have to apologize for taking so long to update, but at least I think I've finally got my mojo back. I'm actually pleased with this chapter (unlike the last two, which disappointed me and which I plan to rewrite once I'm finished with the story). And it's a nice long one to make up for the delay.
> 
> I want you to know that I am not abandoning this fic, even if it seems like that sometimes! I work on it every day, and when it takes me a long time to produce a chapter it's because I'm struggling with it, trying to get it _right_. I truly appreciate your patience, and I thank you for sticking with me when I go so slowly!
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

_The Quibbler_

**_MEMORY THIEF FOUND! MALFOY EXONERATED!_ **

_Minster for Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt today announced that Aurors have found and arrested the person responsible for the so-called Memory Thief crimes. The unnamed Thief has reportedly made a full confession and is awaiting sentencing by the Wizengamot. Shacklebolt went on to say that the Thief acted ‘entirely alone, without the aid, protection or knowledge of any other person.’_

_‘The investigation into these crimes is closed,’ Shacklebolt told an Atrium full of rapt listeners, ‘and anyone previously implicated in them is cleared of all suspicion.’_

_The Minister did not name names, but his message was clear: Draco Malfoy is innocent. After weeks of living under a cloud, hounded by rumors, hunted by Aurors, and finally arrested for crimes he did not commit, Malfoy is once again a free man. Sources at the Ministry report that Shacklebolt himself signed the order for his release, and Harry Potter did the honors, whisking his husband away from Azkaban to safety._

_No one has seen or heard from the couple since Malfoy’s release, though rumors abound. They place Malfoy in France with his mother, in St. Mungo’s with grievous injuries, and even dead at the hands of fellow prisoners. The truth remains to be seen, but those of us who know Harry Potter are certain that, wherever Draco Malfoy is, his devoted husband is at his side. …_

* * *

_The Daily Prophet_

**_SHACKLEBOLT SCRAMBLES WHILE MINISTRY CRUMBLES_ **

_…With a ruthless killer on the loose, Azkaban practically under Martial Law, and senior officers of the DMLE in disgrace, it seems that Kingsley Shacklebolt’s corrupt and clueless regime may finally be coming to an end. …_

_…No one at the Ministry is talking about why Aurors have taken over the Wizard prison or what they found on the island when they did so. We know only that, on the Minister’s orders, confessed killer Draco Malfoy was released, two guards were arrested, and Senior Auror Edmund Warwick was suspended. Shacklebolt admits none of this, limiting his official statements to vague promises that the ‘real’ Memory Thief is now behind bars and his private comments to, ‘You’ll know when I do,’ or ‘Excuse me, I’m late for a meeting.’_

_Shacklebolt has even refused to identify the person now languishing in prison for Malfoy’s crimes and hinted that they will be sentenced without trial, a blatant violation of Wizarding Law not seen since the darkest days of the First Wizard War…_

* * *

Draco awoke at the touch of a familiar hand on his hair. His eyes flicked open, blinked, struggled to focus through the clinging tatters of sleep, to find Harry bending over him. When their gazes met, his husband smiled, but it didn’t reach his shadowed, weary eyes.

“Hey. Sorry to wake you, but it’s time for your potions.”

Draco grunted and pushed himself stiffly up on his hands, turning to see Molly Weasley bustle into the room with an overloaded tray floating ahead of her.

“Potions and a hearty breakfast,” she amended cheerfully.

Draco just watched her with bleared, deadened eyes as she guided the tray over to the coffee table and set it down. It was sloppy full of china and cutlery, the smells of half a dozen different foods rising from it. His stomach promptly heaved, but he made no protest when she held out a glass full of roiling, multi-colored liquid to him.

“Get that into you, my dear. Then tell me what you’d like to eat.”

He just shook his head and downed the mixture in a few determined gulps. Harry, knowing how his body reacted to the potions he was forced to swallow several times a day, kept a hand on his shoulder to steady him. He managed to get it all down, but he felt distinctly queasy and lay back on the sofa as soon as he’d handed off the glass to Molly.

She eyed him worriedly, while he burrowed into his cocoon of quilts and pillows again. “You have to eat something, Draco. You can’t live on tea and potions.”

“Later,” he rasped softly.

“That’s what you said yesterday, and you never touched your tray. When was the last time you actually had solid food?”

Draco just grunted and closed his eyes. Harry’s hand came down to rest on his head, petting his hair gently.

The truth was that Draco had no idea when he’d last eaten, just as he had no idea what time of day it was—or even what day. His life had taken on a rhythm completely divorced from the passage of time. He slept to be wracked by ugly dreams. He woke to swallow potions that left him dazed and sick. He lay with his head in Harry’s lap and watched various Weasleys drift in and out of view, while his endlessly-patient husband read Shakespeare to him or chatted with Ginny about her upcoming Quidditch match. Then he fell asleep and it all started again.

Sometimes—like now—the room was full of sunlight when he opened his eyes. Sometimes it was lit with candles or the moonlight leaking round the edges of the curtains. Sometimes Harry was awake, up and about the house or sitting vigil at Draco’s side. Sometimes he was stretched out on the sofa, trying to catch a few hours’ sleep in between Draco’s nightmares.

The only indication he had that time had passed was the easing of pain in his body and the return of some vestiges of strength. He could now climb the stairs to the loo himself, where at first, Harry had to carry him. Otherwise, one period of wakefulness blended into the next, and Draco made no effort to untangle them.

“How about a piece of toast?” Harry asked, forcing Draco to open his eyes and confront his worried husband again. “Just one piece? Maybe it’ll settle your stomach.”

Draco sighed and disentangled his hand from the quilts. “Okay.”

Harry handed him a triangle of toast, liberally smeared with butter. His stomach protested, but he shoved one corner in his mouth and bit down on it. Harry smiled, lighting up the room.

“Thank you.”

“Hmph.”

Draco chewed and swallowed, his eyes dwelling on the other man, taking in his appearance properly for the first time. He was clean and shaved and groomed, dressed nattily in wool trousers and a hunter-green jumper. Not at all like a man who planned to spend the day lounging on a sofa.

“You look very smart,” Draco said, his voice soft and rough with disuse.

Harry just flushed and rolled his eyes, totally incapable of taking a compliment, as usual.

“He has an appointment with Kingsley Shacklebolt,” Molly chimed in, “and he’s going to be late if he doesn’t hurry.”

“I’m not going,” Harry said, frowning down at Draco. “I’ll Owl Kingsley and tell him I can’t make it.”

“Why in Merlin’s name would you do that?” Molly demanded.

“I don’t want to leave Draco like this. He had a rough night and he still looks a bit green around the gills…”

“Don’t be silly! I’ll stay right here with him and make sure he finishes that toast.” Here she broke off to stare beadily at Draco, forcing him to take another reluctant bite. “So just you go see what the Minister wants and don’t worry your head about us.”

“I still don’t like it…”

“I’ll be fine, Harry.” Draco freed his other hand to clasp his husband’s arm. “Honestly.”

Harry stared at him, tight-lipped and scowling, for a long minute. Then he gave a sigh that seemed to deflate his body and bent over to plant a kiss on Draco’s forehead.

“If you’re sure you don’t mind.”

He did mind. He minded a lot. He didn’t want Harry to leave the room, much less the house, and the thought of him venturing into that nest of vipers called a Ministry started panic churning in his guts. But he couldn’t admit that to Harry or Molly. He had to pull up his Big Boy pants, as Ron so colorfully put it, and act like an adult.

“I’m sure.” After a moment’s struggle, he produced a fractional smile and a hint of teasing humor. “Go do your Savior thing.”

“There’s only one person I want to save,” Harry murmured, bending down to bring his lips to Draco’s.

They kissed softly. Chastely. Draco let himself savor the feel of Harry’s mouth on his, grateful for the love in his touch, even if the passion was notably absent. When Harry straightened up, his hand lingered against Draco’s cheek, and Draco turned into it, eyes falling closed.

Harry sat for another long minute, cradling Draco’s face in his palm, gazing down at him with a longing that Draco could feel even if he didn’t dare to look it in the face. Then he abruptly bounded to his feet. Draco shivered with a sudden chill and tucked his arms back into his quilt cocoon.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can, Dragon. You’ll be safe here with Molly. I checked the wards myself, and I know nothing can possibly get through them.”

Draco didn’t answer, just twisted onto his side and buried his face in the pillow so he didn’t have to watch his husband walk away. He waited, still but tense, eyes clenched a little too tightly shut, until he knew that Harry was gone—through the Muting spell that enclosed the room, if not from the house. Then he relaxed, letting his muscles go slack. Sleep blurred the edges of his mind, promising to envelope him and muffle the pain of Harry’s absence, at least until the dreams started.

That lasted for about thirty seconds. Then, with no warning, a hand whipped his blankets back and a voice said tartly, “None of that, my dear. You’re going to have a proper meal. And _what_ is living in your hair?”

Draco blinked his eyes open to find Molly Weasley looming over him like an avenging angel, wand in hand and determination flashing in her eyes.

Merlin help him.

As he pushed himself upright again, Draco reflected that he had never understood what the Weasley brood had to endure as children. He pitied them. Truly. And at the same time, he envied them down to his bones.

* * *

Harry apparated to Grimmauld Place first out of habit. The house was dark and quiet, the fire cold, the candles unlit and the drapes closed against the Winter sunlight. He knew the instant he appeared in the drawing room that Lissy and her escort were gone.

But where? And, most importantly, where was Narcissa? Had the Unmentionables packed her off to France again, before she got to see her son even once?

He’d have to find her. Bring her home again, if only for an hour. Draco needed her, even if he never spoke of her, and Harry was damned well going to make sure he got her.

Thoughts of Draco made his innards writhe and his determination falter.

He had spent four days pretending that the world outside the Burrow did not exist, ignoring Owls and floo-calls, hiding behind wards and the formidable presence of Molly Weasley, absorbed in the task of holding Draco together ’til his shattered pieces began to mend. That was his life now—a sagging sofa, a pile of patchwork quilts, a shivering body huddled against his back through the night, a silver-blond head lying in his lap through the day, a pair of shuttered grey eyes following his every move as if afraid that he would vanish if they looked away—and as painful as it was, he treasured it.

He had Draco back. Alive. Free. His. He would do whatever it took to keep him and to make him whole again. His job, the Ministry, the expectations of the wizarding world meant nothing to him anymore—not when Draco needed him so much.

Then Kingsley’s Patronus had dropped through the kitchen ceiling in the middle of breakfast and announced: _I need you, Harry. Now. I can’t bring Draco’s attackers to justice without you._

After that, he had no choice, no matter how miserable Draco had looked when he realized Harry was going.

Squaring his shoulders, fighting the urge to apparate straight back to the Burrow and the sofa and his husband, he marched over to the fireplace and lit the log waiting in it with a flick of his hand. Flames danced orange and blue around it.

Harry tossed in a handful of floo powder and called, “Ministry of Magic!”

He pushed open the door to Kingsley’s office, a greeting poised on his lips, only to find that the Minister was not alone. Robards and Hermione were there before him and Hermione was holding forth in her most penetrating, hectoring tone.

“I’m sorry if you find the whole concept of elvish welfare so offensive, Auror Robards, but we have a responsibility for the wellbeing of _all_ of the Magical creatures in our world!”

Harry stopped dead in the doorway.

He loved Hermione. He really did. But it was just too fucking early in the morning for this.

“Our first responsibility is to uphold the law and protect our people from those who would harm them,” Robards countered, “not to coddle a murdering house-elf as if _she_ were the victim here!”

“ _Our people_ meaning the _human_ ones, I presume!”

That was it. Time to go.

He took a step back, ready to pull the door closed again, but was halted by Kingsley.

“Ah, there you are, Harry! Come in!”

Hermione and Robards both twisted round to peer at him—Hermione wearing a hopeful smile—and he felt his stomach drop.

“You’re obviously busy,” he mumbled, in a last ditch effort to escape. “I don’t want to interrupt.”

“Don’t be silly,” Hermione said, sounding far too much like her mother-in-law for his comfort. “You can help. We’re discussing what to do about Lissy.”

“Oh. Right.” Harry shut the door—at his back instead of in front of his face, worse luck—but did not approach the desk. “I wondered why she wasn’t at Grimmauld Place.”

“We’ve moved her to a specially-warded cell downstairs,” Kingsley said, “but we have yet to agree on a longterm solution.”

“Only because the Head Auror refuses to let go of his prejudices and join the 21st Century,” Hermione said tartly.

Robards visibly seethed at that.

Harry reached for the door latch again.

He absolutely did not want to be dragged into this. He had enough on his plate without getting in the middle of a pitched battle between Hermione the Crusader and Robards the Pillock. His intentions must have shown clearly on his face—as per fucking usual—because Kingsley stepped smoothly in to halt his retreat.

“If you will both excuse me, I need to speak with Harry privately.”

“Minister, I don’t think…” Robards began, but Kingsley cut him off.

“Not now, Gawain.” Then, more warmly to Hermione, “Please move forward with your inquiries and keep me apprised of any developments.”

“Of course.” She smiled brightly at Harry as she moved past him, pausing to clasp his arm and murmur, “I’m so glad you came. You shouldn’t be shut up in that house all the time.”

Harry just nodded and accepted the kiss she planted on his cheek, offering no reply. He edged to the side as Robards approached, then moved over to the desk. Kingsley waved him into Hermione’s empty chair. Both men waited for the sound of the door latch snicking shut, telling them they were alone. Then Kingsley smiled.

“Thank you for coming. I know it wasn’t easy for you to leave Draco just now.”

Harry just nodded.

“How is he doing?”

“About as well as you’d expect.”

That was the best he could come up with. He couldn’t brush off the question with lying platitudes, but he couldn’t tell the full truth, either. Draco’s struggles to eat and sleep, his physical and mental torment, his constant nightmares, his inability to leave the sofa that bounded his world without Harry’s arms around him to hold back the fear were none of Kingsley’s business.

The Minister knew Harry too well for comfort and heard far more in that brief sentence than he wanted him to hear—or maybe it was just Harry’s ridiculously transparent face giving him away again. He frowned in concern. “Healer Rasgotra seemed to think he’d fully recover.”

Harry couldn’t help grimacing at that. “If you’ve spoken to his healer, then you know what they did to him.”

The frown deepened. “Yes.”

“So you know that the physical injuries are the easy part.”

“And the other injuries… the difficult ones… are they going to heal?”

“It’s only been a few days. Ask me in a month. Or a year.”

Kingsley sighed, looking suddenly weary. “We don’t have a year, or even a month, Harry.”

“What do you mean?” Suspicion prickled across Harry’s scalp. “Why are you so concerned about Draco’s recovery?”

“I’m concerned because he’s your husband and his welfare is important to you. And because none of this should ever have happened.”

“Brilliant. But that’s not what you meant.”

“No.” Kingsley shifted uncomfortably in his chair—something Harry never remembered seeing before—and cleared his throat. “I need Draco to heal because I need him to testify against Warwick and MacMillan.”

Harry stiffened, outrage robbing him of words for a crucial moment.

Kingsley took advantage of his silence to plow ahead. “I can’t begin to fathom what Draco suffered at their hands. All I can do is look at the results and surmise what it took to reduce a man of his strength and resilience to such a state. The confession alone is proof enough of their brutality. Draco would never have spoken those words if he were not…”

“Stop!” Harry blurted out.

Kingsley stopped, his mouth open in surprise.

Harry took a breath, willing himself to calm and control, then said, “Just stop. I don’t need to hear this.”

“I’m sorry.” The older man regarded him sorrowfully for a moment. “I’m only trying to say that I understand the enormity of what I’m asking, but I also understand how important it is to do this right. Warwick and MacMillan have to pay for what they’ve done.”

“They will, one way or another.”

“You’re not suggesting…”

“I’m just saying that they won’t walk away from this.” He gave Kingsley a long, hard look before adding, “But Draco will have nothing to do with it.”

“We need him, Harry.”

“You don’t. You have the guards, the prisoners, me and Ron. You have the records from St. Mungo’s, proving that he was tortured almost to death, starved and beaten and raped and _thrown down a flight of stairs!_ You do _not_ need Draco!”

“And if Warwick finds a way to explain his injuries? To blame the abuses on the guards or prisoners? If he convinces the Wizengamot that Draco was picking up where he left off with the Death Eaters, bartering his only asset to spare himself further abuse?”

Harry’s mouth twisted into a bitter smile. “Is that what you believe?”

“Not for a moment, but I’m not the one who gets to judge the case, and the wizarding world is full of people who are only too anxious to believe the worst of a Malfoy.”

“You can’t honestly think that parading Draco in front of the Wizengamot will change their minds about him.”

“I think that the Draco you and I know is not the hobgoblin of their imaginings, but they need to see him in the flesh to grasp that. As long as he stays hidden, he gives people like Edmund Warwick and Clive Prewett and Barnabas Cuffe the freedom to paint him in any light they like.”

Harry digested this in silence. He recognized the truth of it and couldn’t fault Kingsley for trying. But it didn’t change the essential fact that Draco was in no condition to face the Aurors who had brutalized him or to bare his savaged soul to a hostile Wizengamot. It simply wasn’t possible.

Finally, he shook his head. “No. I won’t ask him to put himself through that.”

The look on Kingsley’s face told him that the Minister had been expecting that answer. “Let me ask.”

“No.”

“Shouldn’t he have the right to choose for himself? To stand up for himself?”

“ _No_. I’m sorry, Kingsley, but you really don’t know what they did to him. How… fragile he is. He doesn’t speak about Azkaban at all. Never mentions it or what happened there. It’s like he’s shut off that part of his mind just so he can bear to wake up and face the fact that he’s still alive. I honestly don’t know what would happen if I brought it up.”

Kingsley sighed, leaned back in his chair, rubbed a hand over his shaved scalp. “Will you testify? Stand up and condemn two fellow Aurors in front of the Wizengamot?”

“Just try and stop me!” Harry retorted.

“Even if Robards and most of your colleagues resent you for it?”

“Are you seriously asking me that question? As if I care what Robards thinks!”

“You should know that he’s deeply angry about your part in this.”

“Well, the feeling is mutual!”

“He’s still your superior officer, Harry, and he has a lot of influence with the Wizengamot. If he speaks in defense of his men, people will listen.”

“Will he?”

Kingsley pursed his lips in thought. “For the moment, he’s staying neutral. He has suspended Warwick and MacMillan, pending a full investigation of their activities. He has arrested and interrogated the guards who participated in Draco’s torture. And he says all the right things about not condoning abuse of power and seeing justice done.”

“But?” Harry prompted.

“But the message under his words is clear. He doesn’t like turning on his own men and he will look for every opportunity to shield them. You should know that he’s already started muttering about Malfoy’s habit of using his body to get what he wants and hinting that what happened in that cell may not have been rape.”

“That filthy sodding bastard!” Harry snarled, his magic surging with his anger.

He bounded to his feet, taking a hasty turn around the room to burn off some of his excess power. A few random sparks flew around him.

“That’s it! I’m done! I’ve kept my mouth shut, giving him time to figure out just how wrong he was, _protecting_ his sorry arse while he let that wanker destroy my husband!”

“Calm down, Harry. Don’t you think you’re overreacting? Robards hasn’t actually done anything to harm Draco.”

“Hasn’t he?!” Harry shot back. He came to a stop in front of the desk and planted himself, glaring down at the seated man. “He looked the other way while Warwick tried to beat a confession out of him…”

“Ah, now, we don’t know that he was aware of what went on in Azkaban.”

“I’m not talking about Azkaban! I’m talking about what they did right here in this building! When they brought him in for questioning!”

“Are you saying that Warwick physically assaulted a witness?”

He snorted with sour laughter. “You sound surprised.”

“You saw him do this.”

“No, I was in Croatia investigating Aysgarth’s murder, but Ron and Neville saw it. Luckily, they figured out what was going on and put a stop to it in time, but they didn’t know that Warwick had already put a Trace on Draco’s wand.”

“ _What?!_ ”

For the first time, Kingsley looked genuinely shocked. Harry was privately glad to see it—glad for the certainty it gave him that his old friend had not known about this flagrant abuse of power.

“That’s how they were able to arrest him. They put an illegal Trace on his wand and tracked him to his mother’s house.”

“You know this for certain. You’ve tested the wand.”

“We don’t have it. Warwick took it from Draco in Azkaban.”

“Then how can you be sure?”

“Neville Longbottom heard him discussing it in Auror HQ.” He paused, letting the words sink in, then added, “With Robards.”

That reduced Kingsley to stunned silence. He simply stared at Harry, unblinking, until Harry dropped into his chair and spoke, quietly but firmly.

“I meant it when I said I was done, Kingsley. I won’t work for that man anymore.”

The Minister said nothing, just waited.

“I won’t go to the Wizengamot with this, if that’s what you’re thinking. I won’t force your hand in any way. I just won’t come back to work as long as Robards is here.”

“If you leave, most of the younger Aurors will go with you.”

Harry flushed at that and let his eyes slide away. “Maybe a few.”

“You underestimate your influence over them. Most only put up with the divisions and hostility in the department for you.”

“You know where that all comes from, don’t you?” Harry countered. “Robards. I used to think that he’d accepted us and wanted to work with us. Now I’m convinced that he’s pitting the veteran Aurors against us to keep us in our place. He’s afraid of the Young Wands. He sees us as a threat.”

The dark eyes fixed on him sharpened. “Aren’t you?”

Harry shook his head. “I don’t want Robards’ job, I just want to do my own with people I trust to watch my back. I don’t trust Robards. I won’t risk my life for a man who’s just waiting for me to put a foot wrong and take a Killing Curse to the head.”

“And if I bow to your pressure and sack him? Who will take his place?”

“That’s up to you.”

Kingsley studied him intently, face unreadable, then said, “You were born to do this job, Harry.”

“No. I was born to kill Voldemort, and that’s finished. This is just a job and I can live very happily without it.”

“I can’t lose you.”

“Like I said, that’s up to you.”

In the silence that met this statement, Harry stared glumly at the scuffed toes of his trainers, contemplating what he’d done.

Robards deserved it, no question. The Minister had to know what he was capable of, even if it went no further than this office. But what if Kingsley chose loyalty to an old colleague, stability within the department, over justice? Could Harry really give up his job? A job he truly loved? Could he live happily without it, as he’d claimed just a moment before?

Once again, Kingsley read his face as easily as a headline in the _Prophet_. He quirked a smile and asked, a hint of teasing in his tone, “Regrets, Harry?”

He looked up, met the other man’s eyes, and shook his head. “I’m taking an indefinite personal leave to be with Draco while he recovers. That gives you plenty of time to decide what you want to do.”

“What about the investigation of Warwick and MacMillan? Don’t you want to help with that?”

“I said I’d testify, and I will. If you need me for anything, you can find me at the Burrow. I won’t duck your calls, I promise. But don’t expect me back in this building, except for the trial, ’til Robards has left it.”

“Hm. Well, if that’s your position, then I need you to do something before you leave today.”

“What’s that?”

“Give a formal statement, under Auror questioning, about what you saw in Azkaban.”

Harry shifted restlessly in his chair, frowning. “That will take hours.”

“We need the statement, Harry, and we have to follow the correct procedures to get it. All neat and tidy and by the book, so no one can challenge it.”

“Right.” He scrubbed a hand over his face, then dragged it through his hair. “Yeah. I’ll do it.”

“Thank you.” Kingsley pulled a sheet of purple parchment toward him and dipped a quill in a crystal pot of ink. As he wrote, he remarked, “Try not to antagonize the Head Auror while you’re down there. It’s only a few hours, then you’re shot of him, one way or the other.”

“I’ll try.”

Kingsley signed the note with a flourish, then tapped it with his wand. It sprang off the desk, folded itself into an airplane, and swooped over Harry’s head toward the door.

“Let it out, would you?”

Harry obligingly got to his feet and opened the office door, allowing the little airplane to zoom through it. He stared after it, bemused, thinking of his first visit to the Ministry and his first sight of those flying purple memos. They had fascinated him. Everything about the place had fascinated him. Even frightened as he was at the prospect of a Disciplinary Hearing, he had met each new sight and bit of magic with wide-eyed wonder.

Where was that wonder now? Buried under a pile of paperwork and mired in a swamp of petty politics, most likely.

Maybe it would be better for all of them if Kingsley chose to keep Robards on. It would force Harry’s hand, make a painful decision for him and free him of this place once and for all. Then he could remember the wondrous parts and put the ugly ones behind him.

“Give it a few minutes’ head start,” Kingsley said from behind him, bringing him back to his surroundings, “so Robards knows you’re coming.”

“Mm,” he grunted noncommittally. Then with a nod of farewell to the Minister, he trudged out of the room in the wake of the purple airplane.

* * *

Molly was reading, which Draco found curious. He’d never thought of her as the reading type or actually seen her with a book before, but there she was, seated in an armchair with a massive tome floating above her lap, completely engrossed. She poked at it every now and then with her wand, making the pages riffle, while the toothy blond wizard on the cover beamed at Draco from across the room.

He knew that book. Or that face, anyway. He’d seen it before… those twinkling blue eyes, that revoltingly-charming smile… It was a face that positively _begged_ to be hexed.

“Lockhart,” he muttered.

Molly gave a start and peered over the top edge of the book at him. “What’s that dear?”

“Gilderoy Lockhart.” He nodded at the book. “That’s him, isn’t it?”

“ _Erm_ … yes.” The book settled in her lap, thankfully hiding Lockhart’s hex-worthy face. Meanwhile, Molly’s face had turned a bright shade of pink that clashed outrageously with her ginger hair. “I’m looking for a spell to remove grubs from Flutterby bushes, and he’s quite the expert on household pests.”

Draco considered that, trying to dredge up a memory of Lockhart being expert at anything. Or even moderately competent. He came up blank.

“Those bushes are very temperamental. Use the wrong spell on them, and they shrivel right up,” she went on in an unnaturally high, girlish voice. “I bought a pair for Bill’s wedding and have been struggling to keep them fluttering ever since.”

“We had them in our garden when I was a child,” Draco offered, just to be polite, “but the peacocks always ate them.”

“Peacocks?” Molly blinked at him, nonplussed, then smiled. “I didn’t know peacocks ate plants.”

“Only those plants. And only to be contrary.”

She chuckled indulgently and went back to her book. Draco scrunched up in his corner of the sofa, quilts tucked snugly around his ribs. He was considering a nap—Molly had strictly ordered him to stay awake ’til lunchtime, but she was distracted by her infatuation with Gilderoy Lockhart and might not notice—when she abruptly lifted her head. Her eyes went unfocused, as she concentrated on something Draco couldn’t hear, then brightened.

“That’ll be the floo!” She dropped the book on the floor with a wave of her wand and got to her feet. “Just you relax, my dear. I’ll be back in a tick.”

With that, she bustled out of the room, leaving Draco alone to fight sleep. He yawned and slid down to lie on the cushions. His eyes began to drift closed.

Isolated behind a powerful Muting charm designed to keep the living room protected from the chaos of life in the Burrow, Draco did not hear the floo-call. Nor did he hear footstepsmoving back down the crooked hallway toward him. In fact, he was nearly asleep, his eyes closed and his breaths slowing, when Molly’s voice broke in on him again.

“Come right in. I know he’s anxious to see you.”

Panic flooded him.

A visitor? _Here?_ No one was supposed to know he was here, much less be able to reach him!

His eyes snapped open in the same instant that a blessedly familiar voice—the very last voice he had expected to hear—said, “I don’t want to disturb him, if he’s sleeping.”

“He’s not supposed to be,” Molly said tartly.

Draco lurched upright, his eyes finding the tall figure at Molly’s back and widening in surprise. “Mother!”

“Draco. Darling,” Narcissa said, her voice breaking.

She started toward him, and he kicked free of the quilts that swaddled him, eager to reach her. He swung a leg over the edge of the sofa, then froze with his foot halfway to the floor, panic filling his brain with white static.

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t leave the safety of his sofa. He couldn’t…

Then he was moving again, shoving aside panic with the blankets that clung so stubbornly to him, planting his foot on the rug and pushing himself upright. In the next breath, he felt his mother’s arms go round his neck and her cheek press to his.

“Oh, my darling boy,” she murmured against his ear.

“Mother,” was all he could think to say. It came out on a sob.

She pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I’m so happy to see you.”

“I’ll leave you two alone to chat,” Molly said from her place by the door.

Draco peered over his mother’s shoulder at her, seeing her smug expression, and realized that she had planned this. She had known when she practically threw Harry out of the house, when she scoured Draco with cleaning charms, plaited his hair, freshened his pajamas and bedding, then forced something approaching a meal down his throat, that his mother was coming. That’s why she hadn’t let him go back to sleep.

Clever, ruthless, entirely marvelous woman.

Tears suddenly flooded his eyes. “Thank you, Mrs. Weasley.”

“ _Pffft!_ ” She waved that away with a dismissive hand. “Can I get you anything? Tea and biscuits, perhaps?”

“Nothing, thank you,” Narcissa answered, her voice only a trifle thicker than usual. “I have all I need right here.”

Draco just clenched his eyes shut against tears he didn’t want to shed. Not in front of his mother. He felt a pat on his arm and risked a look to find Molly standing close beside him. If she noticed the dampness on his lashes, she was tactful enough not to mention it. She merely patted him again in a way that brought a lump up in his throat and smiled.

“Take all the time you need, my dear. The Muting charm is still up, so you’ll have some privacy, but I’ll hear if you call for me.”

He nodded and, still holding tightly to his mother, watched Molly bustle away.

As she disappeared down the hallway, Narcissa broke their long embrace, stepping back to run her eyes over him. Something flickered in their depths. Distress? Disapproval? It was gone before he could identify it.

Draco tugged nervously on his sleeves. He hadn’t looked at himself in a mirror or spared a thought for his appearance since waking up to find himself at the Burrow, so he could only guess what his mother saw. A rumpled, wan, sickly child, with bruises on his face and tangles in his hair. A ghost in flannel pajamas.

Suddenly, Draco wished he had a comb. And some clean clothes.

“Come sit down, my love,” Narcissa said, pulling gently on his hand.

He turned toward the sofa and felt another flush of embarrassment wash over him. Stepping quickly past her, he scooped up the quilts and pillows, heaping them at one end of the seat and leaving the rest of it clear for his mother to sit. She smiled her thanks and sat down with her usual effortless grace. Draco sat next to her, instinctively flattening his spine against the high back of the sofa and pulling his feet up off the floor. It took all the self-control he possessed not to wrap himself up in a quilt, as well.

Narcissa took his hand, kissed it, and cradled it to her cheek. “I’m so sorry that I didn’t come sooner. You must have thought I’d abandoned you.”

“I didn’t expect to see you at all,” he rasped out, throat tight with emotion. “I thought you were in France.”

“If that were the case, I’d have been with you in St. Mungo’s the day you were released. No Ministry spies could have kept me away.”

He frowned in confusion. “But… where have you been?”

“At Grimmauld Place with Lissy.”

His confusion deepened. So did his frown. “In Harry’s house? Why?”

“Kingsley Shacklebolt asked me to stay there with Lissy, to keep her calm, ’til they had a more secure place to put her. He needed someone she trusts, and I was the only person available. She isn’t very happy with Harry at the moment, and in any case, he belongs here with you…”

“Mother.” She closed her mouth and looked enquiringly at him. “What’s going on?”

Narcissa’s face went still, her eyes wary. “Harry didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“It seems I’ve spoken out of turn.” Her gaze slid away. “Perhaps I should let you discuss this with your husband.”

“No.” He pulled his hand out of her clasp and folded it tightly in his lap with the other, trying to hide the tremor in his fingers. “I want to hear it now. From you. Why was the Minister for Magic keeping Lissy at Grimmauld Place and why did he need your help to do it? And if you’re here now, where is Lissy?”

She studied his face from behind her perfect Malfoy Mask for a handful of seconds before venturing, in her most careful and colorless voice, “Lissy is the Memory Thief.”

Draco just stared at her, stunned into stupidity.

“She’s been tracking down the men who hurt you and punishing them. Meting out justice, as she understood it.”

“No,” he managed to choke out. “No, that’s… _insane._ ”

“I’m afraid it’s true. We heard it from her own lips.”

“I don’t believe it. I _don’t_. Lissy wouldn’t hurt a fly, and she certainly wouldn’t let _me_ suffer for something _she_ did! You have to be wrong, Mother!”

“I wish that I were, my darling. I’m afraid that Harry and I are partially to blame, since we never told her why you had been arrested. She thought it was just another case of wizards being stupid and cruel and hurting her young master for no reason. She had no idea that they were punishing you for what she’d done. Once she did know, well…”

“No. Oh, no!”

“She tried to punish herself. Then she surrendered to the Minister in exchange for a promise to let you go.”

“Lissy.”

He began to shake. A sob rose in his throat, choking him, and he hunched over to smother the sound. His arms locked around his ribcage. He began to rock back and forth. But still the sobs came, stronger and stronger, while his eyes stung with tears.

“No no no no no no… _Fuck! I can’t believe this is happening!_ ”

“It was wrong,” Narcissa said, her voice a soft caress, “it was terrible, but it was an act of love.”

She put a comforting hand on his back, but at her touch, Draco reared up in alarm, throwing himself against the back of the sofa. His entire body was shaking, his skin crawling with fear and disgust. Desperate to hold himself together, he drew his knees up tightly to his chest and bent to hide his face in them.

Narcissa watched him, frowning, obviously caught off-guard by his violent reaction. “Draco?”

He felt her cool hand covering his own where it clutched at his leg. Her other hand began to stroke his hair.

“Don’t torment yourself, my darling boy. Lissy never meant to hurt you. She loves you as much as I do, as much as any mother could…”

“You’re not helping!” Draco gasped.

“What will help?”

“Tell me it’s all a dream—a fucking _nightmare—_ and none of it is real!”

“I’m sorry.”

“I can’t believe this… I can’t fucking believe this…”

“Hush.”

Sliding a hand to the back of his neck, Narcissa pulled his head down to her shoulder. Then, careful not to trigger his panic response with an unwary touch, she looped her arms around him. He crumpled against her, surrendering to the agonizing relief of his mother’s arms, not even caring that she could feel the sobs shaking him and the tears dampening her robes.

She let him weep silently into her shoulder for some minutes, then rested her lips against his hair and murmured, “Draco, my dear, none of this is your fault. You must remember that. Lissy wanted justice—the only kind of justice a house-elf understands—so she made it happen. That was her choice, not yours, and no one blames you. Least of all her.”

“She’s going to prison for me!”

“No. She’s going to prison for crimes she committed, but she’s not alone. You mustn’t think we’ve abandoned her.”

“We?”

“Me, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Hermione Granger. And Harry, of course.”

“Harry knew all of this.” Draco huddled against her, sniffling, then said in a small, hurt voice, “He knew and he didn’t tell me.”

She hesitated, stroking his hair, then offered, “Perhaps it just never came up.”

“Never came up?” Draco pulled out of her arms. Turned accusing eyes on her. “How does _that_ work? He’s been with me, night and day, for four bloody days, knowing that my oldest friend has been murdering people on my behalf, and it _never came up?_ ”

“The point is that he’s been with you night and day, watching over you, caring for you, loving you.” A hint of pleading crept into her voice. “Listen to me, darling. Harry is a good man. A generous man who has given you everything you could want and asked very little in return. Don’t ever take that generosity for granted.”

He lifted an eyebrow at that. “What are you trying to say, Mother?”

“I’m offering you a piece of advice from someone who has survived far more years of marriage than you have. Forget the injuries done to you. Focus on your future. Focus on your _husband._ And keep in mind that even a man who gives as readily as Harry will expect something in return.”

“ _What?!_ ” Draco squeaked.

“I know you’ve been through a hideous ordeal and you’ve barely begun to heal. I don’t expect you to go from your sickbed to your marital bed in an instant. More to the point, neither does Harry! But he won’t wait forever. No man would.”

“Harry doesn’t… You can’t seriously think…” he floundered, too gobsmacked to assemble a coherent sentence.

“Draco.”

He fell still, responding to the soft but implacable command in her voice. Wary, tear-bright eyes fastened on her face.

“I don’t mean to upset you, my darling boy. I’m only trying to help you keep what you value most. Harry loves you, of that I have no doubt, but love comes at a price. You of all people—a Malfoy raised in the oldest traditions of pureblood society—should recognize that. If you’re not willing to pay that price, you will lose him.”

“And the price I have to pay is sex?” Draco said stiffly. “Is that what you’re saying?”

She accepted this crude statement without a blink. Answered equally bluntly. “What else do you offer him?”

Draco flinched. Looked away. “So, I’m still prostituting myself.”

A hand touched his, light and cool. “You would not be the first person to come to a marriage with nothing but beauty and the willingness to use it for your husband’s pleasure. And Harry would not be the first man to accept a spouse on those terms.”

“ _Stop it, Mother!_ ” He jerked roughly away from her, anger and disgust vibrating through him, followed by a niggling doubt that only made him angrier. “Stop talking about Harry as if you know him!”

“I do know him. I know how all men behave, within the bonds of marriage.”

“You don’t,” Draco said stubbornly. “I don’t have to buy Harry with sex, and I’m not going to lose him if I can’t _perform!_ He knows I love him. He knows I’ll give him what I can, but he’d never ask me to… to…” He faltered, letting the rest of that thought die unsaid.

Narcissa leaned forward to clasp his arm, giving him a wistful smile. “We all want to believe that of our husbands.”

“Harry has ever complained about what I bring to our marriage.”

“Because he loves you and he wants you and you have always been enough for him. But now…”

“Now I give him nothing, is that it?” Summoning the shreds of his courage, he looked her coldly in the eye and stated, “I am not you. Harry is not Father. Our marriage is not built on how often I let my husband bed me. And this conversation is _done._ ”

Narcissa gazed searchingly at him for a long minute. Then, quite suddenly, she smiled and pulled him down so she could kiss his forehead. Her hands slid around his neck, holding his cheek against hers.

“I only want you to be happy, my dearest boy.”

“I know that, Mother.”

“If I spoke out of turn, I apologize.”

“Forget about it. And don’t bring it up again.”

“Not a word.” She kissed his cheek and pulled away, all smooth poise and courtesy again. “Let’s talk about something more cheerful. I spent last night with my sister. She was delighted to hear that your legal troubles are over and she wants to bring Teddy to meet his cousin.”

“I’m not exactly up for visitors.”

“Of course. You need more time to rest and heal, or at the very least, to shower and dress properly! We wouldn’t want Teddy to see you like this. Toddlers are very impressionable, after all.”

Draco rolled his eyes, but at the same time, he felt a smile tugging at his lips. He let the smile widen, as he settled more comfortably into the sofa. His mother’s words flowed over him like a balm, soothing his jangled nerves as they called up a hundred scenes from his childhood. And the squirming ball of doubt in his stomach fell still. For now.

*** *** ***

“Molly?” Harry called, as he apparated into the front parlor of the Burrow. “I’m back! Sorry it took so long!”

No one answered. The house was unnaturally quiet—no feet thundering on the stairs or voices shouting from the rooms above, no clatter of pots and pans from the kitchen or sounds of Molly scolding one of her brood. Sometimes Harry thought he’d never get used to the Burrow with so few people in it.

Shedding his Winter coat as he went, he headed through the kitchen and on to the living room, where he knew Draco would be waiting for him—probably asleep under a pile of quilts. The Muting spell blocked all sound going in or out, so he wasn’t surprised to hear nothing as he strode down the hallway. He _was_ surprised, however, when he stepped into the room and found it empty.

“Draco?”

He dropped his coat on the nearest chair and looked around. Not only was the room empty, but it was entirely too orderly. The books and tea cups were gone. Molly’s omnipresent knitting was tucked away in its bag beside her armchair. Draco’s bedding was folded and stacked at one end of the sofa, with a pad of blue and white flannel sitting neatly atop the pile.

Harry stared at the pajamas, gobsmacked, for a handful of seconds. Then, spinning abruptly on his heel, he headed out of the room at a run, calling, “Draco? Molly? Where is everybody?”

He burst into the kitchen, still shouting, only to pull up short at the startling sight of Draco coming down the stairs toward him—if it was really Draco. Harry couldn’t be entirely sure, considering that he looked nothing like the invalid he’d left huddled on the sofa just hours before.

Gone were the rank hospital pajamas. Gone was the bleared, fuddled, rumpled look of a man who spent more time asleep than awake. He was dressed in a pair of leggings—most likely Ginny’s, since they were covered with multi-colored flowers—one of Ron’s old maroon jumpers with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a pair of orange Chudley Cannons socks. His hair was clean and loose, falling down his back in a spectacular platinum curtain. His eyes were alert, if a bit hollow, and his cheeks tinged with color.

He spotted Harry and halted on the stairs, looking uncertain. He tugged awkwardly at the hem of his over-long jumper.

“There you are!” Harry cried in relief. “What are you doing up?”

“Having a bath.”

They both started moving in the same instant, meeting just at the bottom of the stairs. Draco, still one step up, looked down into Harry’s glowing eyes and tried on a small smile. It set Harry’s heart racing.

“I thought you’d be pleased.”

Harry fastened both arms around his waist and leaned into him. “I think it’s brilliant.”

Draco’s smile widened. He hesitated for a moment, then bent his head to touch his lips to Harry’s.

It was a small kiss—more of a peck, really—but it poured through Harry’s body like liquid light. He hummed his pleasure and pressed his mouth a little harder against Draco’s, keeping it carefully closed. When Draco pulled away, he offered no protest, just gazed up at him with reddened cheeks and shining eyes.

Draco started to edge past Harry into the kitchen, but the taller man caught him round the waist and lifted him effortlessly off the stairs. Draco, his orange-clad feet dangling a handspan above the floor, looked down at Harry and smirked.

“Show off.”

“You look tired,” Harry said earnestly, “and it’s a long way back to your sofa. Let me help you.” He started for the hallway.

Draco rolled his eyes in mock disgust. “I’m perfectly capable of walking, Harry.”

“I don’t think so. You’re looking decidedly peaky, as Molly would say. And speaking of Molly, where is she?”

“She wasn’t in the bath with me, if that’s what you’re wondering.” His legs came up to wrap around Harry’s waist and his arms circled his neck.

The familiar feel of his husband’s body settled against his brought Harry’s cock up hard and fast. He gave a breathless laugh, hoping Draco couldn’t feel his raging erection or hear his heart pounding.

“You are feeling better, aren’t you?”

They were in the living room now, in the middle of the floor.

“Well, I’m feeling clean, anyway. Put me down, you prat.”

Instead, Harry stretched up to plant a kiss on the dimple showing at the corner of Draco’s mouth. Draco leaned into the caress, then unlatched his legs and slid down to plant his feet on the floor. Harry had to hold his breath as the other man’s body rubbed blatantly against his swollen crotch. Then Draco was stepping out of his arms and padding over to the sofa. He let the air out of his lungs in a silent groan.

“That jumper is big enough to swallow you whole,” he commented, more to distract himself from his aching bollocks than because he actually cared about what Draco was wearing.

“Molly did her best. At least she found me some leggings,” Draco added, with a glance over his shoulder.

It may have been an invitation. Harry doubted it, but he allowed himself to hope, as he watched Draco fold himself onto the sofa, his long legs moving seductively in the skintight leggings and his jumper hiking up to expose first a taut arse cheek and then the obvious bulge between his thighs. Clearly, Molly had used a tailoring charm on those leggings to make them fit so well.

Clearly, she hadn’t thought what it would do to Harry.

“She certainly did,” he muttered. Then, shaking off his ill-timed lust, he crossed to the sofa and plopped down on it beside his husband.

“I could shrink that jumper for you,” he offered.

“Molly already tried, but it went lumpy.” Draco pulled his feet up under his bum, knees folded and jumper now demurely covering his crotch. “Besides, I like it big.”

Harry reached out to pet the thin fabric stretched over Draco’s knee. “Was it the leggings that inspired you to have a bath?”

“I’d say it was past time, wouldn’t you?”

“Yeah, but…” His hand clasped the knee warmly, and his eyes fixed earnestly on Draco’s face. “Why now? Why did you finally decide to get off this sofa?”

The color in Draco’s cheeks deepened. His gaze slid away. “You can blame my mother.”

“Wait… Your mother? You saw her?”

“She spent the morning here.”

“How? She wasn’t in Grimmauld Place this morning when I…” Draco’s accusing glare strangled the words in his throat. He met those Arctic eyes, saw no warmth in them, and swallowed nervously. “What?”

“You knew my mother was in London.”

“I… Yes, I did.”

“In your house.”

“Yes.”

He paused ominously, then said, “With Lissy.”

Harry gulped. “Yes.”

Draco twisted on the seat cushions to face him directly. His eyes were shuttered, but his mouth looked oddly vulnerable, as if he were a breath away from gnawing on his lip like any low-bred Gryffindor.

He was not angry, Harry abruptly realized, but hurt.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I couldn’t find a way.”

“All you had to do was say it.”

Harry shook his head. “It’s not that easy, Dragon. You haven’t said a word about… about Azkaban, haven’t even asked how we got you out. It’s like you’ve been pretending that it wasn’t real.”

Draco flinched and looked away again, his jaw clenching.

“I was afraid to bring it up. I couldn’t bear to hurt you anymore and I couldn’t find a way to tell you that wouldn’t hurt. Especially since it was Lissy. So I waited.”

“You withheld vital information.”

“I waited,” Harry repeated firmly. Then, more gently, “I was going to tell you.”

“Instead my mother had to do it.”

“Well, to be fair, she didn’t _have_ to. She could have kept her gob shut.”

Draco glanced up at Harry, startled by his bluntness, then caught the laugh lurking in his eyes. His face relaxed. Something approaching a smile twitched his lips.

“Keeping quiet is not my mother’s forte.”

“I noticed.” A grin lit Harry’s face. “But at least she got you off the bloody sofa. How did she manage it? Was it a lecture on proper comportment or the evils of poor hygiene?”

“It wasn’t anything she said, it was this look she gave me… like when I was five years old and she found me trying to catch grindylows in the lake.”

Harry snorted with laughter. “Was she afraid they’d drown you?”

“Unlikely, since there aren’t any grindylows in our lake, just a lot of mud. And a few leeches.”

“ _Eurgh!_ ”

“Yes,” Draco’s eyes sparkled playfully at him, “that’s the look.”

“Git. Now I feel sorry for your poor mother.”

“Don’t. Pity the leeches.”

Harry chuckled. Draco didn’t quite go that far, but he was smiling as he slumped back into the sofa cushions and shoved his loose hair back from his face. Harry watched, eyes veiled behind his lashes to mask their hunger, following the hand as it moved, dwelling on the fingers as they sank into gleaming strands. Long, white fingers. Bare of ornament.

Then it hit him.

“ _Fuck!_ I almost forgot!” Stretching out his hand, he sent a silent _Accio_ at his coat and waited as three objects sailed from its pocket across the room to him. “Neville sent me these. He found them at… well, he found them and thought you’d want them back.”

The first was a shrunken cardboard box that Harry tossed negligently onto the coffee table, remarking offhandedly, “That’s got your clothes in it.”

The second was a familiar length of polished wood that Draco pounced on the instant he saw it.

“My wand!”

He made a grab for it, but Harry pulled it out of his reach, chiding, “Just hang on a minute!”

“That’s my _wand!_ ”

He tried again to grab the wand. Harry took the opportunity to catch him by the wrist, confining his left hand and forcing him to hold it still. Then he held up the third object.

A platinum ring.

Draco immediately stopped squirming, his eyes—now wide as dinner plates—on the gleaming thing in Harry’s hand. “My wedding ring.” He swallowed painfully and whispered, “I never thought I’d see it again.”

Harry’s clasp on his hand softened. His smile turned wistful. “May I?”

Draco swallowed again, nodded, then watched intently as Harry slid the ring onto his fourth finger. It settled perfectly in place.

Still wearing that wistful smile, Harry lifted his hand and kissed his knuckles, then the band of metal circling his finger. Then he placed the wand in Draco’s hand and curled their linked fingers around it.

Draco made an odd little sound in his throat, caught between a whimper and a laugh, and leaned forward to press his forehead into Harry’s shoulder.

“Are you sure?” he whispered, voice small and uncertain.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

“The ring came off. The world still thinks I’m a murderer. This could be your chance to start over…”

“It’s _our_ chance to start over, you git. Together.”

“Harry…”

“Merlin’s saggy tits, you’re as bad as your mother! Never know when to shut your bleedin’ gob!”

Draco gave a muffled gurgle of laughter.

Harry lifted his chin and kissed him.

*** *** ***

_He was dreaming of their bath. Of lying back against smooth porcelain with bubbles foaming up around his shoulders, the scent of sandalwood filling his head. Of Draco hot and slick and pliant in his arms._

_He was hungry. His cock was full, his balls tight, his guts clenching with need. But he made no move to enter the body straddling his. For now, this was enough. This bliss of lips and tongue and hands and silken thighs. These heated caresses in the steaming water._

_Draco’s lips were moving against his own, teasing his mouth before working down over his upturned jaw and arched neck. Over the hollow of his throat where his pulse beat so madly. Over collarbone, chest, taut nipple and heaving ribs. His head sank below the water as if it were not there, while his mouth continued to torment his helpless husband, nipping and sucking and licking, drawing ever closer to his aching cock._

_Fingers stroked his thighs. A tongue circled his navel. Teeth pulled lightly at the tender skin of his loins, and Harry cried out in surrender. His head dropped back. His mouth gaped open on a moan as his eyes fell closed. His hips surged up, searching for the warmth and welcome of that incendiary mouth…_

Harry started awake, eyes snapping open to stare at the darkness around him. His skin was slick with sweat, his heart pounding, his cock achingly hard. He closed his eyes again, smothering a groan so as not to disturb the man sleeping beside him.

And then he felt the mouth.

“Draco?” His voice cracked with disbelief on the name.

Hair slid against his thighs as the other man lifted his head.

“What are you doing?”

“Taking care of this,” Draco said, then lapped at the swollen head of Harry’s cock.

His entire body jumped at the touch. He bolted upright and grabbed for Draco, finding his tousled head and loose hair.

“No… wait!”

Draco moved again, straightening up further this time, and Harry saw the faint gleam of moonlight in his wide-open eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“You don’t have to do that!”

“I want to.”

“Do you?”

Harry cast a silent _Lumos._ By its bluish glow, he saw Draco crouched over his legs, head up, hair spilling over his shoulders to trail across his lap. His eyes were huge in his pinched, bloodless face, his lips wet from his assault on Harry’s body but still cold and stiff.

He blinked at Harry, taken aback by his question, then said, “You’re hard.”

Harry looked down at his own lap, only now realizing that his pants were down around his knees and his shirt pushed up above his navel. His cock lay hot, heavy and leaking on his belly. He flushed and tugged his shirt down.

“Yeah, well, that happens when I dream about you.”

“If it’s my fault, I should fix it.”

“It’s no one’s fault,” Harry retorted, reaching for his pants. “I had a dream, that’s all.”

Draco watched him heave his bum off the sofa to pull his pants over it, frowning. He opened his mouth to utter a protest as Harry’s cock disappeared into his clothing, but shut it with the words unspoken.

Harry settled himself back on the cushions and eyed his husband in concern. Draco still had not relaxed his posture. He looked as if he were about to pounce on Harry and tear his clothes off. But he didn’t look as though he even remotely fancied the idea.

“Draco.” Those liquid-silver eyes fastened on him and Harry fancied that he could see his own face reflected in them, so enormous were they. “You don’t have to suck me off every time I get hard.”

“It’s all I can do,” Draco said quietly. “I can’t fuck after… what happened, so it’s the only way I can please you.”

“ _Please me?_ ” Harry gaped at him for a moment, then blurted out, “What the buggering fuck are you talking about?!”

“You want me. You got hard dreaming about me…”

“We weren’t fucking,” Harry cut in hastily. “We were in the bath. Just touching. Holding each other like we used to. That was enough.”

“In the dream, maybe, but now? When you’re awake?” He gazed solemnly at Harry, his eyes seeming to grow impossibly bigger, ’til they swallowed the wandlight that filled the room.

The sadness and doubt in them were too much for Harry to take. He knew he shouldn’t touch him in this state. He was perilously close to crossing a line he couldn’t uncross and doing still more damage to a man who had been pushed far past his limits already. But Draco’s pain was his. Draco’s fear and uncertainty, Draco’s loss, Draco’s hopelessness. They were all Harry’s. He felt them in his blood and bones. And he wanted desperately to ease them, if only for a moment.

Slowly, giving Draco ample time to pull away, Harry reached for him. His fingers sank into thick, silver-gilt hair, curved around the other man’s neck, pulled gently to draw him closer. Draco obeyed his touch, swaying forward to meet him. His lashes dropped to veil his incredible eyes and his lips parted.

In the instant before their mouths touched, Harry whispered, “You’re always enough for me.”

Draco breathed out a sigh and fell into the offered kiss.

It was careful, almost tentative. Butterfly wings brushing together. Snowflakes falling on winter-thick fur. The delicate warmth of a candle flame on bare skin.

Harry savored it for a long moment, letting the taste and smell of his lover fill his head like firewhiskey fumes, then gently pulled back.

Draco’s eyes fluttered open. They were warmed by the kiss but still over-large and dimmed by shadows that didn’t belong there.

He regarded Harry solemnly for a moment, then murmured, “I’ll do whatever I can to make you happy, Harry, and I’ll try to get over this… over myself. I promise.”

“I’m not asking you to get over anything, Dragon. Only to heal in your own time.”

“I will try. And if… if you get tired of waiting and want me to…”

Harry’s brows flew up. “Don’t even say that!”

“I’ll let you,” Draco went on doggedly. “I will. Just tell me.”

“I will _not!_ ” Harry cried furiously. “Why would you even suggest that?!”

Draco swallowed convulsively and lifted his chin. “I don’t want to disappoint you.”

Harry just gaped at him, robbed of words by this simple statement.

Draco dropped his eyes and murmured, almost soundlessly, “When we got married you said that we were equal partners, but that’s not really true, is it? I may be your husband, but I’m not your equal. I never was. I owe you my life several times over. You gave me everything and I gave you nothing in return except… me.”

His gaze flicked up to Harry’s again. “That’s not exactly an equal trade.”

“I think it is,” Harry whispered.

“Maybe when I’m holding up my end of the deal. I fuck like a pro—I _am_ a pro—and I know what that’s worth to man like you. Believe me, I know. But now you’re not even getting agood fuck out of me.”

“Stop it, Draco! I mean it, I won’t listen to this!”

Draco’s mouth snapped shut and he fixed a cowed, wary gaze on Harry.

“ _Fuck!_ ” Harry swore, reaching to pull Draco roughly into his arms.

The other man came to him willingly, curling against him, tucking his head into his shoulder. “I’m sorry I made you angry.”

“Don’t apologize to me! _Merlin’s bloody balls_ , Draco, what’s the matter with you tonight?”

Draco hesitated, and Harry could feel his heart pounding frantically against his own chest. “I’m frightened.”

“Of what? You know nothing can touch you when I’m here.”

“But what if you _aren’t_ here? What if I wear out your love for me and drive you away and I’m _alone?_ ”

“You _can’t!_ Oh, Draco.” He began to rock in a soothing rhythm. “You can’t wear out my love. You can’t drive me away. You _can’t_.”

“Even your capacity for forgiveness must have limits,” Draco whispered into his shoulder.

“Not for you. Besides,” Harry pushed the hair back from his forehead and pressed a kiss to it, still rocking, “you don’t need my forgiveness. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“I confessed to things. Horrible things. If you knew, you wouldn’t…”

“Shh. It doesn’t matter. I know they were all lies.”

“They didn’t feel like lies when I said them.”

“You were out of your mind,” Harry whispered against his forehead, eyes clenched shut against sudden tears.

“I told them that I let my father fuck me, that I wanted it, that I _begged_ for it,” Draco said in a ghostly whisper. “Was that a lie?”

“It was.”

“I don’t even know!”

“I do. Shh.” He kissed Draco again, rocked for another few seconds, then said, “Trust me, Dragon, I know.”

Draco made a small, throaty sound and burrowed deeper into Harry’s arms. He was shaking. Harry lay back on the sofa, carrying his husband with him, and pulled the quilts up over both of them. Draco made another sound, this one full of urgency, and lifted his head in the same moment that Harry lowered his.

Their lips brushed, the touch shooting straight to Harry’s cock, then clung together. Draco made that low, enflaming sound again and opened his mouth.

Harry was lost.

They kissed slowly, deeply, languorously. Harry didn’t dare let his lust off its lead, but he couldn’t hide the longing in his kiss. Or the swelling in his crotch, when Draco shifted half atop him and pushed a knee between his thighs. He was hard as a broomstick, and his pants were already wet.

Draco didn’t seem to mind, just angled his head to bring their mouths more firmly together and let Harry feast on him. His hip and thigh pressed harder against Harry’s cock and began to rub very slightly. Harry groaned into the kiss, then pulled back to catch his breath and calm his racing pulse.

That was when he realized that he wasn’t the only one with a broomstick in his pants.

He looked down to find Draco gazing at him from beneath heavy lids, his cheeks flushed and his lips swollen. As Harry watched, his tongue slid out to lick his lower lip, making it gleam provocatively in the wandlight. Then he smiled at his panting husband.

Harry lunged to take his mouth again and, at the same time, slipped a hand down his front to rest against the hardness nestled between his thighs. Draco hummed and licked into his mouth. Harry pressed his knuckles against the warm, slightly damp flannel.

Draco shuddered.

Pulling back very slightly, Harry asked, “Is this okay?”

“Nnngh,” Draco grunted, searching for Harry’s mouth again.

Harry dodged him. “Draco…”

“It’s more than okay, Harry.” He sounded breathless. Almost desperate.

“I don’t want to push you.”

“Shut it and touch me, you git.”

That wrenched a laugh out of Harry, even as he moved to capture Draco’s mouth and plunge a hand into the front of his trousers. Draco was more than ready for him. More than willing. At the first touch of Harry’s fingers, he moaned and arched into his grip, cock stiffening and wetness oozing from the tip to smear his hand.

It was hungry. It was filthy. It was fucking fantastic and all the encouragement Harry needed.

He took Draco apart. Slowly. Relentlessly. His hand working his cock, his tongue plundering his mouth, his lips devouring the moans that spilled out of him. His own cock was iron-hard and aching—leaking a little more with every lascivious, greedy sound that Draco made—but he ignored it. This wasn’t about his release. It was about making his dragon forget about every other man who had ever laid a hand on him.

At the last moment, when Draco was poised on the brink of climax, he tore his mouth away from Harry’s and threw his head back. His eyes fluttered closed. His throat worked. His hips thrust frantically upward, fucking his cock into Harry’s fist. And with a panting cry, he emptied himself across Harry’s stomach.

Harry held perfectly still, not wanting to shatter the moment, staring up at his husband’s face in rapture.

He was so beautiful. So _fucking_ beautiful! That look on his face… stripped of every last defense, naked and open and trusting and all for him… Only for him…

 _Sweet Salazar’s cock_ , he was beautiful! And he was _Harry’s!_

With that thought, Harry came, ecstasy erupting in his guts and spilling out of his cock in hot, white ropes of spunk. He gave a soft grunt of pleasure that turned to a breathless laugh, as Draco chose that moment to collapse on his chest in a tangle of hair and limbs. Harry laughed again and gathered him up in his arms, still shaking with the force of his orgasm. His cock twitched, pumping more stickiness into his pants, and he pressed his free hand over it.

His clothing and skin were liberally soaked with spunk—both his own and Draco’s.

It was a fucking mess. As soon as Draco regained his senses, he was bound to say something cutting about it. Harry could clean it up with a thought… if he was still capable of thinking, that is. Or he could just lie here, sated and happy, with an armful of blissed-out Draco to keep him warm.

That sounded nice.

He settled his head more comfortably in the pillow and tightened his arm around Draco, snugging him in against his ribcage.

“You good?” he asked softly.

“Brilliant,” Draco mumbled.

“You sure? It wasn’t too much?”

Draco lifted his head and propped his chin on Harry’s chest. The eyes he fixed on his husband were entirely soft and warm and free of shadows. They were even the right size. Then, impossibly, he smirked.

“What do you think?”

“I think you look like you just had the world’s greatest hand job.”

The smirk softened into a real smile. Harry felt his heart stutter.

“I did.”

Brushing his knuckles down Draco’s cheek with infinite gentleness, Harry asked, “What got you so worked up tonight, Dragon?”

“Your hand on my cock.”

“No. I mean before that. Why were you spewing all that rot about disappointing me?”

“Oh, that.” Draco flushed. “It was something my mother said.”

“Your _mother?_ ”

“She… worries about my future.” Harry raised an eyebrow at that, and Draco’s flush deepened. “She’s afraid you won’t want a spouse who doesn’t… who can’t perform his, er, marital duties…”

“Good grief! You can’t seriously believe that!”

“She reminded me just how much I owe you and how little I contribute to our marriage. And she cautioned that if I want to keep you, I have to be willing to satisfy your needs.”

“Bollocks!” Harry said rudely. “And shame on you for taking marital advice from the woman who chose Lucius Fucking Malfoy as a husband!”

“That’s my mother you’re talking about,” Draco said, trifle defensively.

“I know it is, and I’m sorry if you don’t want to hear this, but she is the very last person I would trust on the subject of marriage—well, maybe the second to last, next to your fucking father. I like your mother, Draco. No, scratch that, I love her. I really do. But the next time she tries to tell you how to _keep me_ , I’m going to glue her tongue to the roof of her mouth!”

Draco gave a little gurgle of laughter and ducked his head, hiding his face in Harry’s shoulder.

“I’m serious!”

“I know you are.” Draco lifted his head again, showing Harry a face alight with laughter and soft with remembered ecstasy. It was so beautiful that it hurt to look at. “But she was right about one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“I want to keep you.”

“Oh, Dragon…”

“I want to be your husband and share your home and sleep in your bed and give you everything you need… if I can.”

“That’s easy,” Harry whispered, his hand slipping around Draco’s head to cradle it and nudge it closer to his own.

“I don’t want to be your project, Harry. The person you have to save.”

“Shh.” Their lips were only a breath apart now, and Harry lifted his head to reach the other man’s mouth.

“I want to be a real husband in a real marriage,” Draco insisted. “An equal partner.”

“You are.”

He brought their lips together in a slow, sweet kiss. Draco sighed. Then choked. Then drew slightly away. Harry thought he saw tears shining in his eyes.

“Not if I can’t give you what you need.”

“Shall I tell you what I need?” Harry whispered, feathering another brief kiss to his lips.

A tear slid from between Draco’s lashes to paint his cheek with wandlight. “Tell me,” he mouthed soundlessly.

“I need to hold you against my heart ’til it stops beating.”

Draco fell perfectly still, his eyes locked to Harry’s, for a handful of seconds. He didn’t even appear to breathe. Then, without a word, he turned his head and rested it on Harry’s chest. Harry let out an explosive sigh and wrapped both arms tightly around his husband’s slighter body. Draco responded by slipping his own arms around Harry’s waist, oblivious to his damp and sticky clothing.

“Tighter,” he whispered.

Harry obligingly tightened his hold.

Then they both fell still, listening to the steady beat of Harry’s heart caught between them.

**_To be continued…_ **


	14. The Scales of Justice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow, I always end up putting a trial scene in every fic I write, even the funny ones. I keep telling myself that I won’t, that I don’t like writing them and am rarely satisfied with the result, but they always seem to be necessary. So I could say that this is the last trial scene I’m ever going to write, but I’d probably be lying.
> 
> I did manage to put it off until the third story, this time, so that's something. Enjoy!

* * *

_Magical Legal Times_

**_MEMORY THIEF GETS LIFE_ **

_British Magical Authorities yesterday announced that the so-called Memory Thief, a criminal responsible for the deaths of two wizards and the_ Obliviation _of numerous others, has been sentenced to life in prison. Sentence was passed in a Closed session of the Wizengamot, after the suspect provided a full confession and waived right to trial. In her official statement, the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot said only, “Justice has been done and the guilty party dealt with fairly. I hope we can all move on, now.”_

_Legal experts throughout Britain and Europe have speculated as to the identity of the Memory Thief, wondering why the authorities have gone to such lengths to conceal it from thepublic. No one close to the case is talking…_

* * *

_The Daily Prophet_

**_ABUSE OF POWER ALLEGATIONS TO BRING DOWN ROBARDS?_ **

_As scandal continues to rock the Ministry of Magic and two Aurors stand accused of heinous crimes, Head Auror Gawain Robards remains suspiciously silent. Robards, a twenty-year veteran of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, is known for his outspoken support of his officers and his reforming zeal, which leaves him with a conundrum._

_At the forefront of the campaign against the embattled Aurors is none other than professional savior Harry Potter, an Auror himself and the public the face of the Shacklebolt administration. Standing against him are Edmund Warwick, a senior Auror with fifteen years on the Force, and former Potter loyalist Ernie MacMillan. Potter cries corruption and abuse of power, while Warwick and MacMillan claim that they were doing their jobs and trying to protect the wizarding public._

_So who does Robards support, if he wants to save his beloved Force and keep his cushy office? And why is he keeping so quiet?_

_Whispers from inside the Ministry suggest that Robards himself is implicated in Warwick and MacMillan’s crimes and he may be facing charges in the near future. When asked if Robards is on his way out, Minister for Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt replied, with his usual candor, “No comment.” …_

* * *

Ron was waiting in the corridor outside Courtroom Ten. He looked tired and grim, a tic going in his left cheek. There was a splotch of baby spit-up on his shoulder.

Harry smiled wryly in greeting and wiped his thumb over the stain. A silent _Tergeo_ whisked it away without a trace, leaving only pristine red robes.

Ron sighed wearily. “Thanks, mate.”

“Hermione still not around to take care of you lot, then?”

“She came home late last night, but she was too knackered to bother with us.”

“Hmm.”

He wanted to ask what Hermione was up to—what solution she had found for the challenge of imprisoning a house-elf for what promised to be a very long life—but he didn’t dare mention it with half the wizarding population of Britain just the other side of a door. Kingsley and the Chief Warlock had, between them, managed to keep the Memory Thief’s identity a secret so far. Harry wasn’t about to bollock it up for them.

Instead, he murmured, “So, are you ready for this?”

“It’s just a trial. We’ve been through dozens of them.”

“This one could end our careers.”

Ron gave a derisive snort. “Warwick’s the one who should be worried about his career. That fucking wanker is going to Azkaban, where he belongs. Let _him_ play with Greyback and the Death Eaters for a while!”

“Yeah, but all his friends will still be there when you walk into HQ tomorrow morning, and they won’t forget what we do in there.” He nodded at the door and the courtroom beyond.

“We’re doing the right thing. You and I know that, and the rest of them will, too, by the time we’re done.”

“And if they don’t? Or they don’t care?”

Ron shrugged. “Then fuck ’em.”

“As long as you’re ready.”

“I’m ready.”

Harry nodded once and reached for the door latch. “Let’s do this, then.”

* * *

Draco sat at the kitchen table, a cup of tea cradled in both hands and his stockinged feet hooked around the legs of his chair. Molly bustled around him like a ginger whirlwind, her wand never still, seemingly drawing culinary masterpieces out of thin air. The same air that was now filled with the divine smell of baking pastry.

He absently sipped from a delicate china cup painted with blue Forget Me Nots, paying no mind to the chip in its rim. It was his cup, now. A symbol of his adoption into the Weasley Clan. He was the only left-handed member of the family, and so the only one who could easily drink from the cup without cutting his lip on the chipped edge. Molly never served him tea in anything else, and even the remaining Terrible Twin now casually referred to it as ‘Ferret’s cup’.

Molly sent a tray of chocolate biscuits sailing into the oven and paused to push the hair back from her sweaty forehead. She caught Draco’s eyes on her and smiled fondly at him. Tucking her wand into her sleeve, she plopped down in the chair opposite his.

“Have some biscuits with that tea.”

He shook his head slightly. Sipped at the tea again. Let his gaze wander over the array of food filling the counters. “You don’t expect Harry to eat all that, do you?”

“Not all on his own.” Her eyes narrowed as they rested on his face. “You’re going to help. And the rest of the brood when they show up for Sunday dinner tomorrow.”

Draco winced and shot her a panicked look. “What?”

“It’s a Weasley family tradition. Didn’t Harry tell you?”

“But…”

He thought back over the days he’d spent in this house. Had it really been less than a week that he’d hidden on his sofa, afraid to put a foot to the floor? Or had he been so out of it, so lost in his own misery, that he didn’t notice a mob of Weasleys descending on the house?

“We skipped the last few weeks while you were recuperating,” Molly went on cheerfully, “but you’re up and about now, so I see no reason to cancel again.”

Draco opened his mouth to protest, then shut it with a snap, his cheeks going pink.

He did not want to sit through another Weasley Family dinner—not after the disaster that was Christmas Eve—and the thought of having all those people in the house made his skin crawl. He had to fight the sudden urge to retreat to his sofa and wrap himself up in a protective cocoon of quilts. But this was not his home to order as he pleased. Molly and Arthur had done more than enough for him already. If they wanted to invite their brood over for Sunday dinner, that was their business, and he would either have to suffer through it or go find a dark cupboard to hide in ’til they went away.

Her eyes twinkled shrewdly at him. She reached over to pat his arm in a way that he supposed was motherly—his mother had certainly never done it, but Molly did a lot of things that Narcissa did not—and said, kindly, “No need to look so petrified, my dear. Weasleys may snarl a bit, but we don’t bite.”

“Even George?”

She chuckled. Pushed herself to her feet. Dusted her hands on her apron, then shook it out. “I need to finish the baking before lunchtime.”

“Can I help?”

She eyed him narrowly. “How are you with pie crust?”

“Ummm….”

“That’s what I thought. You just enjoy your tea and keep me company.”

“I need something to do,” he replied, a hint of desperation in his voice.

Molly turned back to him, her smile gone and her eyes troubled. “You’re not worried about the trial, are you?”

Draco bit down on the side of his mouth and looked away.

“Harry will take care of everything. You’ll see.” When he didn’t answer, just continued to stare off into the distance and gnaw on his cheek, she sat down again and leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Draco.”

His eyes flicked back to her. He must have looked thoroughly panicked because she reached over to clasp his hand.

“You mustn’t upset yourself.”

“It’s not about the trial. Not the way you think.” He took an unsteady breath and blurted out, in a rush, “I don’t actually care what happens to Warwick! I just want to forget what he did to me, but Harry won’t let it go! He wants to make it right somehow—like that’s even possible—and now he’s sitting in that courtroom, watching the Wizengamot pick over my pathetic life like… like vultures feasting on a corpse…”

“Hush, now.” She squeezed his hand. “You need to calm down and trust Harry to take care of this. It’s part of his job, you know, giving evidence before the Wizengamot. He’s quite good at it.”

“I just want him to come home and tell me that none of it matters. That whatever the Wizengamot decides, he and I will be all right.”

“Oh, my dear,” she sighed, “of course you will. If you don’t fret yourself to death before he ever gets here.”

“Let me help you with Sunday dinner?” he pleaded. “I can make a batch of double-chocolate walnut fudge!”

Her eyes began to twinkle again. “A person can only eat so much fudge.”

He felt the hopeful smile slide from his face. “It’s the only thing Harry taught me.”

“Well.” She patted his hand and got to her feet. “What do you say to letting me teach you something, then, as a surprise for Harry?”

He brightened again. “Can you translate recipes into Useless Pureblood Snob?”

She snorted, hands planted on her hips, and gave him a stern look. “You don’t need a translator, and you stopped being a useless pureblood snob the day you agreed to wear my children’s hand-me-downs.”

Draco glanced down at his clothing, a pleased flush mantling his cheeks. He wore Ron and Ginny’s cast-offs with no trace of awkwardness, happy to be a secondhand Weasley in secondhand clothes, so long as he had a place at Molly’s kitchen table. And a tea cup with his name on it.

“So, what’ll it be, young man? Biscuits? Brownies?”

“Treacle tart?” Draco ventured.

Her brows flew up, then drew down into a frown. Draco regarded her in growing dismay, seeing his lovely plan to surprise Harry with his favorite dessert crumble to dust.

“If you don’t think…”

“What’s that?” Her frown vanished. “Oh, no, I was just trying to remember if I have any golden syrup left. I believe…” She drew her wand and pointed it at the open door to the larder. A moment later, a glass bottle full of warm, brown liquid sailed through it and into her hand. “Yes, here we are! I thought I tucked a bottle away during Harry’s last visit, just in case he needed something to perk him up! The poor boy was always prone to moping…”

“Harry?” Draco’s brows arched up. “Moping?”

Her smile turned fond and the twinkle in her eyes brightened. “Well, he was missing you, wasn’t he? Now,” she was all brisk efficiency in an instant, “we’ll start with the crust, since that’s the tricky part.”

Draco bounded out of his chair, smiling in anticipation.

“You’ll need to tie your hair back so it doesn’t get in the food. And you’ll need an apron.” Her wand flicked a few times, and suddenly Draco’s hair was neatly plaited, his body wrapped in a flowered apron that clashed spectacularly with his leggings. “Now, then… where’s your wand, dear? You can’t make pastry dough without a wand!”

Draco laughed, turned, and sprinted down the hallway to fetch his wand.

* * *

Courtroom Ten was packed nearly to capacity, the middle tiers a solid mass of purple robes, the benches above and to either side crammed with spectators of every description. From his place on the dungeon floor, Harry had a sweeping view of the crowd and especially of the front bench where the key players sat. That’s why he liked to give evidence from down here, instead of up on the benches with Kingsley and Ron and the others. He liked to see who he was talking to. Read their reactions. Play to the crowd.

He’d learned that from Albus Dumbledore, along with so many other things.

He’d also learned—from his own experience over the years—the value of turning his back on the accused when he spoke. It helped him keep his temper. It also helped him avoid feeling sorry for the person chained to that ominous chair. Not that he was likely to feel sorry for Edmund Warwick under any circumstances.

Ron and Neville had already given evidence, describing Warwick’s assault on Draco in the interrogation room and his admission to the wand Trace. Neville had refused to identify the other party to that damning conversation, so Robards was still in the clear. Warwick had blustered and cursed and denied the whole thing, but Harry sensed that the Wizengamot, at least, was inclined to believe Neville. And they were definitely inclined to take it in bad part when an Auror usurped their authority by Tracing a wand without permission.

Now it was Harry’s turn. The star attraction.

He could feel the hostility in the room—not just from the mass of red-robed Aurors watching from the front rows. The anger. The raw, ugly excitement that flared when he stepped down from his seat onto the dungeon floor, as the audience braced themselves for his public evisceration.

Hadn’t they learned by now? He wasn’t a terrified fifteen-year-old, facing trumped-up charges in some Medieval Star Chamber, depending on Dumbledore to save him. He could save himself, thank you very fucking much.

It wouldn’t be his guts spilled on the floor today.

“Why are you here today, Mr. Potter?” John Dawlish asked.

Dawlish had assumed an earnest, almost fatherly manner, as if deeply concerned for Harry’s welfare, but he fooled no one. He was a retired Auror who took any slight to his old comrades as a personal affront. Harry suspected that he’d been chosen as an Interrogator so Warwick would have someone in his corner.

“Why are you, a junior Auror with so much still to learn, risking your career and reputation in this way? Attacking a senior officer for doing his job? Setting your—I have to say— _naïve_ opinions and expectations against those of older and wiser men?”

Harry didn’t blink at the blatant condescension. Frankly, he was used to it.

“I’m here because it’s my duty to give evidence in a criminal trial, to see that justice is done, even when the man on trial is a fellow Auror. Maybe you think it’s naïve to expect officers of the law to actually _follow_ the law, but I don’t. Edmund Warwick not only broke wizarding law, he violated the laws of human decency. He has to pay for that, like anyone else.”

“So this is about doing your duty? It has nothing to do with your husband, Draco Malfoy, and what you allege Warwick did to him?”

“Of course it does,” he replied promptly and with unvarnished honesty.

It never occurred to him to answer any other way. Harry was a terrible liar, and he was even worse at playing politics. Everything he felt was visible in his face. Everything he thought came straight out of his mouth. This was both a curse and a blessing in a situation like this, where he could so easily lose his temper and all rein on his tongue, but where honesty was so rare a commodity. The Wizengamot had learned to trust that Harry would speak the truth as he saw it and damn the consequences. He wasn’t about to break that trust now.

“Warwick did unspeakable things to someone I love,” he went on, “and I want him to pay for it. I won’t apologize for that. But my personal feelings don’t make what he did any less criminal.”

“What he did. You mean, arrest a man he suspected of committing brutal crimes?”

Harry paused to consider, then admitted, “If he had proper authorization for the arrest, then no, that wasn’t criminal.”

“Questioning the suspect, then?” Dawlish prodded. “Taking down his confession and presenting it to his superior officer? Filing charges with the Wizengamot? Were these criminal acts?” Then, before Harry could answer, “I’ve been off the Force for a few years and things may have changed, but the way I remember it, that’s what an Auror is supposed to do when he’s caught a killer!”

“Except that he hadn’t caught a killer,” Harry countered, still managing to keep his voice level.

“He didn’t know that at the time—no one did—and Auror Warwick was only doing what you or I or any other arresting officer would do!”

“I don’t treat my suspects that way,” Harry said dryly, “and sincerely I hope you didn’t, either.”

“That I didn’t take them into custody? Interrogate them? Try to gather the evidence to put them in that chair?”

He gestured grandly toward the man seated in the middle of the dungeon floor. Harry didn’t turn to look, choosing to keep his eyes on Dawlish.

“It wasn’t what he did but how he did it.”

Dawlish barreled on, deftly sidestepping Harry’s statement. “Aren’t you the one who got himself _suspended_ for drawing his wand on another Auror? For threatening his life?! Behavior that would have gotten anyone else thrown into a cell next to his Death Eater husband?!” A rumble of noise rose from the tiers of seats, forcing Dawlish to raise his voice as he finished triumphantly, “It sounds to me like _you’re_ the one who thinks his red robes set him above the law, _Mister_ Potter!”

Griselda Marchbanks looked up from the parchment on the desk in front of her to shoot a quelling glare at her colleague.

“ _Auror_ Potter’s suspension has been lifted, Mr. Dawlish, without further disciplinary action or stain on his record. It has no bearing on his evidence.”

“I’m simply making a point,” Dawlish growled.

As Chief Warlock and Lead Interrogator, Madam Marchbanks was supposed to be impartial—all the Interrogators were, really—but Dawlish’s obvious prejudice nettled her. She turned her gimlet glare full on him and barked, “Don’t. Ask him a question or sit down and be quiet.”

Harry smothered a smile at that, then turned politely to Aurelia Pauncefoot, the third Interrogator, when she cut in, “Can you clarify something for me, Mr. Potter?”

He nodded.

“When you say that this isn’t about what the Accused did, but how he did it, what do you mean?”

“I mean that the broad strokes Mr. Dawlish described are correct. They’re the steps an Auror should take to catch and convict a criminal.”

“They’re the steps _you_ would take.”

“Yes. But the broad strokes aren’t enough. You have to make sure that every detail is correct, or you end up breaking the law and tainting your case.”

“Details like using an illegal Trace to locate your suspect?”

“Exactly.”

“ _There was no fucking Trace!_ ” Warwick snarled, interrupting Harry’s testimony for the first time. “Longbottom is lying!”

His words triggered a fresh round of murmurs from the crowd and a few shouts. Harry kept quiet, waiting for the next prompt from Pauncefoot, but it was Marchbanks who spoke first.

“We have already heard Auror Longbottom’s testimony and the Wizengamot will determine its validity. You are entitled to defend yourself, Mr. Warwick, but you will not help your cause by disrupting the proceedings with abuse, profanity or repetitive denials.”

She glared at Warwick for another handful of seconds, then nodded to Pauncefoot.

“Go on, Mr. Potter. You were saying?”

“Using illegal magic to track and arrest a suspect automatically wrecks your case. The Wizengamot will throw it right out, and probably charge you, instead.”

“So, how do you make a _legal_ arrest?”

“First, you get a warrant. Then you located the suspect—by looking for him, not by Tracing his wand—show him the warrant, inform him why he’s being arrested, and disarm him. Then you bring him to the Ministry, put him in a holding cell, and fill out all the appropriate reports…” He broke off and grinned. “There are a _lot_ of reports.”

“I don’t doubt it. Tell me, is it ever legal to arrest a suspect without a warrant?”

“Sure. If you catch him committing a crime. If you have reason to believe that he’s a danger to himself or others.”

“Like, if he leaves a suicide note?”

“Yes, or a manifesto threatening to wipe out an entire Muggle community, something like that.”

“What if he’s sitting quietly at home, minding his own business, but you just _know_ he’s guilty?”

“You need a warrant,” Harry said firmly.

“Even if he’s a murderer?”

“Doesn’t matter. Unless he’s actually trying to kill someone, you need a warrant.”

“I see. So, let’s go back to Mr. Malfoy’s arrest…”

“Excuse me, Madam Pauncefoot, but his name is Potter. Draco Potter. Not Malfoy.”

“I beg your pardon. Do you mind if I call him Draco, for the sake of clarity?”

Harry grinned. “Go ahead.”

“Thank you. Did the Accused get a warrant for Draco’s arrest?”

“No.”

“How do you know?”

“I checked the case file after the arrest.”

“Did he tell Draco why he was being arrested?”

“No. He and five other Aurors apparated straight into Narcissa Malfoy’s cottage and Stunned him before he knew what was happening.”

“Six Aurors? For one man who was, presumably, going to see his mother?”

“That’s right. They appeared in the cottage less than ten seconds after Draco himself, in a circle around him, with their wands drawn.”

“And Stunned him without warning.”

“Yes.”

“Where did they take him?”

“Azkaban.”

“Why to Azkaban, instead of the Ministry?”

“Because they wanted to keep him away from me.”

“But you’re Draco’s husband. Doesn’t that give you the legal right to visit him, even when he’s under arrest?”

“Yes.”

She pursed her lips in thought, then asked, her tone disbelieving, “Did the Accused or the Head Auror give you any reason for this high-handed treatment of your husband?”

“I didn’t speak to the Accused. He was at Azkaban and out of my reach. The Head Auror told me that Draco was their primary suspect in the Memory Thief crimes, and that I was also a suspect because I had given him an alibi for several of the attacks.”

“So, you were a suspect because you told them that your husband—who shares your home and, presumably, sleeps in your bed—was with you at the times that these men were attacked?”

“Yes.”

“Was there any actual evidence linking Draco to the crimes? Any reason to think you were lying and he was out _Obliviating_ people?”

“You want evidence?!” Warwick snarled, before Harry could answer. “I’ll give you evidence! Malfoy was _fucking_ every one of the victims!”

This time, the roar from the benches above nearly lifted the ceiling off the chamber.

Warwick continued to shout above the din, “Potter won’t admit it because he’d have to admit what that precious piece of arse he married really is! But _I_ know! I had proof from Malfoy’s own mouth!”

Madam Marchbanks touched her wand to her throat and boomed, her voice magically amplified, “ _Silence!_ I will have _silence_ or I will clear the courtroom!”

Slowly, the shouts and catcalls faded back into background noise, allowing Harry to make himself heard.

“Draco was a prostitute! That’s not a secret. Anyone who reads _The Daily Prophet_ knows it. He was a prostitute for years and he had sex with lots of men—anyone willing to pay for it—but that doesn’t make him a killer!”

Pauncefoot nodded approvingly. “Just so. Having sex with men is not a criminal offense under Magical Law. You’ll have to do better than that, Mr. Warwick.”

“I had every reason to believe that Malfoy was the Memory Thief,” Warwick said, his jaw set stubbornly.

“I see. So you arrested him without a warrant because you had _every reason to believe_ that he was guilty.”

Warwick did not answer, just glared at her.

She paused for a beat, then turned back to Harry and asked, “Is any part of the arrest you just described correct and legal?”

“No.”

“How long was Draco in Azkaban?”

“Three days.”

“During that time, did he contact you?”

“No.”

“Did anyone contact you on his behalf?”

“No.”

“Did the Accused file any of the necessary reports, informing the DMLE or the Wizengamot that he’d made an arrest? Did he request a barrister for Draco?”

“No.”

“So, in effect, Draco Potter dropped off the face of the Earth for three days.”

“That’s right.”

“Is that legal, Mr. Potter? To hold a suspect for three days without representation, family visits, or formal charges filed?”

“No.”

Again, she gave his statement time to sink in, then she asked, “How did you get your husband out of Azkaban?”

Harry shifted uncomfortably on his planted feet, aware that they were getting to the ugly part. “The Minister for Magic signed a warrant for his release.”

“Why?”

“My partner, Ron Weasley, and I caught the real Memory Thief. The Minister interviewed the suspect, got a full confession, and immediately decided to free Draco.”

“And you went to Azkaban to fetch him?”

“Yes, with Auror Weasley.”

“What happened when you reached the prison?”

“At first, the guard on duty tried to keep us from getting to Draco. He claimed that he wasn’t a prisoner, that he was being held ‘ _special_ ’,” Harry made air-quotes with his fingers, “for questioning, and only the arresting officers were allowed access to him. I could tell he was nervous and he didn’t want us to see Draco for some reason.”

“What did you do?”

“Showed him the Minister’s warrant. Forced him to give me the cell number. Then headed upstairs to get Draco.”

“You didn’t wait for the guards to process Draco’s release and bring him down?”

“I wasn’t going to wait,” Harry said flatly, “and I wasn’t going to give them time to clean up after themselves. I knew everything about the situation was wrong, that Draco was in trouble, and that I had to get to him. So I went straight up to his cell.”

“What did you find when you got there?”

Harry drew in a deep breath, willing himself to calm. He’d made it this far without losing his cool and he was determined to make it through to the end.

“Draco’s cell was in the main prison tower, along with all the Death Eaters and Dark wizards who were serving Life sentences. The werewolf Fenrir Greyback was in the cell right across the passage, and he was jeering at me, throwing insults and saying how Draco belonged to him… until Ron hit him with a hex. That shut him up.”

“Is this the same Greyback who was known for biting and infecting the children of families who resisted Lord Voldemort?”

“Yes.”

“The same Greyback who, according to your own evidence, sexually assaulted a teenaged Draco Malfoy in his parents’ home?”

“Yes.”

She nodded, as if checking off a point. “Very well. Go on, please.”

“The cell door was standing open…”

“Excuse me? The cell door was _open?_ With a prisoner inside?”

“Yes. Draco was… lying on the floor. His wrists were bound to the bars, and his head…”

“Mr. Potter?” Pauncefoot nudged gently, when he let his words die out.

Harry shook himself. Shook his brain back into gear.

“They’d tied him to the bars with his own hair. He was naked, so I could see the wounds all over him. Bruises, welts—like the kind you get when you fire a hex at close range—cuts and bite marks. His nose was broken, and his jaw. His ankles and wrists had bloody marks on them where he’d fought against his bonds. His ribs were black—I mean, really _black—_ and there was blood running down his thighs.”

“Was he conscious?” she asked softly.

“Not at first. I cut him loose and used the guard’s robes to cover him. He was freezing… If you’ve been in Azkaban, you know what it’s like—so cold the dementors might as well be living in the walls. Even in the middle of Summer, you need a fur-lined cloak to stand it for more than a few minutes. But Draco was just lying there, naked, not even a blanket in the cell. So I cast a Warming charm and wrapped him up, and he sort of woke up.”

“Sort of?”

“He didn’t know who I was. He thought I was going to hurt him.”

Pauncefoot nodded her understanding. “What did you do after you cut Draco loose?”

“I left Auror Weasley in charge at the prison, while I took him to St. Mungo’s.”

“Did you make it in time?”

“Yes.”

“So, your husband, Draco Potter, is still alive?”

“Yes.”

“Why isn’t he here today, giving evidence against the men who did this to him?”

“I wouldn’t let him come. I don’t want him to suffer anymore than he has. And he doesn’t need to see that wanker’s face again.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder at Warwick without deigning to actually look at him.

“Thank you, Auror Potter. I have no more questions. Mr. Dawlish?”

Before Dawlish could open his mouth, Madam Marchbanks rose to her feet. “Please take your seat, Mr. Potter.”

She whacked the wooden barrier with her wand, and a set of ornate metal steps appeared, leading up off the dungeon floor. Harry climbed them quickly, hopping over the barrier and taking his seat between Ron and Kingsley. He let out a shaking breath. Ron squeezed his arm in sympathy, but neither man spoke, not wanting to draw the fire of the Chief Warlock.

“I’d like to hear from the healer who treated Mr. Potter upon his arrival at St. Mungo’s. Healer Rasgotra?”

A lean, handsome man, impressive in his lime-green robes, rose to his feet. Unlike Harry, he did not opt to descend to the floor, just stood at his place next to Neville and gazed gravely at the Chief Warlock.

“Can you describe Mr. Potter’s injuries for us?”

Rasgotra nodded once and began talking in his clipped, well-educated accent. The chamber was deathly quiet, every eye fixed on the healer, but Harry stared at his clenched fists and steadfastly refused to listen. He could still see every one of Draco’s injuries—vivid and hideous—every time he shut his eyes. He didn’t need Rasgotra to paint them for him again.

He was doing a decent job of blocking it all out until Rasgotra said, “Mr. Potter was sexually assaulted multiple times by five different men,” and the room exploded.

Harry’s head came up with a jerk, his eyes moving to where Warwick sat in the middle of the dungeon floor. The prisoner was pulling against his chains, snarling and spitting words at the healer that were almost lost in the storm of noise. Almost, but not quite.

“…can’t prove it was rape!” he was bellowing. A howl of mingled protest and approval met this, only growing louder as Warwick raised his voice. “So he took it up the arse a few times! He’d done it often enough before, and things happen in prison! People get up to all sorts of mischief!”

“ _ENOUGH!_ ” Marchbanks roared, her magically-amplified voice making the walls shake. She was on her feet again, wand pointed at her own throat. “ _THAT IS ENOUGH!_ ”

The din slowly subsided, as Warwick slumped back in his chair with a pleased smirk on his face and the audience realized that he was done. Marchbanks waited, face set and furious, ’til the entire chamber had fallen silent. Then she lowered her wand and turned to Rasgotra.

“Thank you, Healer Rasgotra. You may sit down.”

The healer sat.

Marchbanks swept the chamber with her steely gaze, taking in the prisoner, the clump of scowling Aurors in the audience, then the tiers above and behind her, coming to rest last on Harry.

“We have heard quite enough,” she finally said, her words carrying to the back benches without need of magic now. “This is a simple case, not worthy of the time we’ve wasted on it. We know that Draco Potter was arrested by Auror Warwick and taken to Azkaban. We know that, while there, he was beaten, raped, denied clothing, sleep and food, and apparently thrown down a flight of stairs. As a result, he gave a confession that was so patently false the Head Auror dismissed it out of hand and refused to enter it as evidence in the case. We _know_ these things. They are _facts_ , not open for dispute. The only remaining question is, who is responsible?”

Her eyes went to Warwick and visibly hardened. “Mr. Warwick, I will give you one chance to convince me that you are not responsible for these atrocities. _One chance._ Answer my questions directly and honestly, without profanity, personal attacks or diversions. I won’t ask a question twice. And I will take a lie as proof of your guilt. Do you understand me?”

Warwick said nothing, just glared at her.

“ _Do you understand me?_ ”

After a visible struggle with himself, Warwick muttered, “Yes.” Another pause, another struggle, then, “Ma’am.”

She nodded once, the motion sharp and uncompromising. “Did you obtain a warrant for Mr. Potter’s arrest?”

“Who?” Warwick asked blankly.

“Don’t test me, Mr. Warwick! Answer the question.”

His face turned an ugly shade of red. “No.”

“Why not?”

“There wasn’t time.”

“Explain.”

“The little c— the _suspect_ was hiding behind Potter’s wards where we couldn’t get at him.”

“By which you mean that he was living in the home he shared with his husband?”

“Potter kept the place locked down tighter than a Harpy’s twat—”

“One more, Mr. Warwick, and you’ll be back in your cell before you can shout for a barrister.”

Harry could almost feel Warwick seething from across the dungeon. He spoke through bared teeth. “Potter’s home is warded so tightly that no one can get in. You can’t get close to it for the Repelling charms, can’t even _see_ it, so I knew that there was no way we could arrest Malf— the _suspect_ until he came out. We had to move fast, grab him when we got the chance, not wait on paperwork.”

“Did you request a warrant?”

“No. I assumed it was a waste of time, with Potter protecting him.”

“Did you have any authorization for the arrest?”

“I had the Head Auror’s permission.”

“Did you put a Trace on Mr. Potter’s wand?”

“ _I did not_ ,” he ground out.

“How did you track him to his mother’s home?”

“We were watching the place.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “For how long before the arrest? With how many officers? How did you know he’d arrived, if you were outside and he apparated directly into the cottage? How did you get six Aurors in position so quickly?”

Warwick clenched his teeth ’til his jaw bulged, then said, “I had men watching his mother’s house, and I arrested him on instructions from my superior officer.”

“Why did you take him to Azkaban instead of to the Ministry?”

“I had to put him someplace where Potter and his lackeys couldn’t get to him. They’d already interfered once, grabbing the suspect while I was questioning him, and I knew they’d try again.”

“Did you inform the correct authorities that you’d arrested him?”

“No. We were still in the informal phase of questioning.”

“Did you contact either a barrister or his family on his behalf?”

“We were still in the informal phase of questioning,” he repeated stubbornly.

“I see.” Marchbanks made a show of looking at the notes in front of her, though Harry sincerely doubted that she needed them. “Why did you remove Mr. Potter’s clothing?”

That caught Warwick off guard. It took him a moment to come up with an answer. “We were checking it for concealed weapons or spells.”

“For three days?”

“We wanted to be thorough.”

“Did you offer him prisoner robes, in the meantime?”

“He wasn’t a prisoner. It wouldn’t be proper to dress him as one.”

“Did you offer him anything to cover himself with? A blanket?”

Warwick shrugged, making the chains slither and clink. “I’m not responsible for prisoner care.”

“He wasn’t a prisoner. He was in your sole charge.”

He shrugged again. “I left it to the guards.”

“Why did you bind him to the bars of his cell?”

“We were being cautious. I had reason to believe that he was adept at wandless magic and very dangerous.”

“Did you ever see him perform wandless magic? Did he resist arrest, struggle, threaten you or the guards, give _any sign_ that he was dangerous?”

“We didn’t give him the chance.”

“But you left the cell door open.”

“The guards needed immediate access to him, in case there was trouble.”

“How long did you leave him bound to the bars?”

“I don’t know. I left before they finished settling him in his cell. But they must have untied him when they brought him down to the interrogation room for questioning.”

“How long was he in his cell before you interrogated him the first time?”

Warwick hesitated, then, “Twenty-four hours, give or take.”

“You left him there for an entire day? Why?”

“We had paperwork to do.”

“Hmph. When you questioned him the first time, did he seem well? Rested?”

“Well enough. He was in Azkaban, for Fuck’s s— uhh…”

Marchbanks let the obscenity slide. “Did you offer him food?”

“He didn’t ask for it.”

“Do you only feed prisoners when they request it?”

“I was interrogating a suspect, not playing nursemaid.”

“So, you neither gave him food yourself nor told the guards to feed him?”

He gave her a blank look.

“Did he ask for anything? A barrister? A visit from his husband?”

“He asked for a cuppa.”

“Did you give him that?”

“I gave him a drink of water.”

“Was he visibly injured in any way?”

“Not that I saw.”

“What about the second interview?”

“By then he was a bit… disoriented. Confused. Like the cell was getting to him.”

“You didn’t notice the bruise on his ribs or the blood on his thighs?”

Warwick couldn’t help grinning at that. “I might’ve noticed that. I might’ve figured he was up to his old tricks with some of his daddy’s friends.”

Marchbanks gave him a long, level stare. “Let me be perfectly clear on this. You had a man in your sole custody, whom no one outside the walls of Azkaban had been allowed to contact for days. You found him bruised, bloody, disoriented and confused, with visible evidence of sexual assault, and you… _assumed he was up to his old tricks?_ What, exactly, does that mean?”

“Well, he was a whore, and not just when he worked in that brothel. He was whoring for his daddy when he was still in school. So it wasn’t much of a stretch to think that he was still doing it.”

“In a cell in Azkaban? Tied to the bars, naked, freezing, weak from hunger, disoriented by lack of sleep, with a concussion and three broken ribs? How do you imagine he was soliciting sexual favors in that condition? And how did the prisoners get into his cell? Where were the guards? Who fired the hexes at him? _Who raped him_ , Mr. Warwick? Was it _you?_ ”

Warwick’s face went a deep, blotchy red. He bared his teeth in a snarl. “I never went near his cell after we brought him in!”

“So you had no idea that he was being systematically assaulted, over days, by prisoners who should never have gotten near him?”

Harry closed his eyes at that. He couldn’t help it. He couldn’t look at Warwick, knowing what he’d done, without leaping over the barrier and tearing his head off with his bare hands.

“You say it was rape,” Warwick shot back. “I say it was a Malfoy showing his true colors. You can call him _Potter_ ’til you’re blue in the face, but he’s still a Malfoy and no better than his cunt of a father!”

“Was it your idea to put in him the cell right across from Fenrir Greyback’s?”

“A cell is a cell…”

“Was it your idea to let the werewolf who had brutally raped him as a teenager watch while it happened again? Did you think it was _funny?_ ”

Dead silence met her words. Harry could have sworn that he heard a mouse chewing on the panelling somewhere at the back of the chamber. Then Warwick shifted in his chair, making the chains clank. He quirked a smile, but his eyes were ice cold.

“Call it poetic justice.”

Marchbanks just stared at him, letting the moment stretch out until the air was so thick with tension that it hurt to breathe. Then she barked, “Guards! Take the Accused up to a holding cell!”

The entire courtroom watched in frozen silence as two Hit-wizards—borrowed for the occasion from the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad—stepped forward to flank Warwick. One tapped his wand against the chains, loosening them, and the other dragged the prisoner to his feet. They marched him across the floor, out the door, and blessedly out of sight.

A long minute passed, then Marchbanks spoke again. “I want the courtroom cleared of spectators and witnesses while we deliberate. In an orderly fashion, please.”

Harry got to his feet, but a touch on his sleeve stopped him from leaving. He looked down into Kingsley’s somber face.

“Wait for me in my office. I shouldn’t be long.”

He just nodded and turned to go, following on Ron’s heels.

The corridor was full of whispering, muttering people. Harry instinctively ducked down the stairway that led to the lower door to put some distance between himself and the crowd. Ron and Neville followed, both quiet and solemn. When they reached the empty lower passage, Harry sagged against the wall and buried his face in his hands. Ron leaned into the stone to his right, Neville to his left, shielding and supporting him at once.

“You did it, mate,” Ron said earnestly. “You nailed the bastard.”

Harry lifted his head. “If anyone nailed him, it was Marchbanks. She was bloody brilliant.”

“They’ll give him ten years at least,” Neville insisted.

“We’ll see.”

He didn’t say that Marchbanks was only one person and that people like Dawlish would never vote against an Auror. Or that most of the wizarding world still thought that Draco was guilty and deserved everything he got. They didn’t need to hear it, and he couldn’t bear to voice his fears aloud.

He was scowling at the floor, wishing that the crowd above would just fuck off so he could leave, when he heard a familiar voice call, “Harry?”

He looked up to see Cho Chang lurking a few steps up, gazing uncertainly at him. She was dressed in her uniform robes, and he supposed that she had been sitting with the other Aurors, since he hadn’t spotted her in the audience. A large proportion of those Aurors were right at the top of the stairs, looking down at him with inscrutable faces.

“I can’t do this right now, Cho.”

She gave him a mournful look and came down the last few steps. “Please, Harry.” She stopped in front of him. “I just wanted to apologize.”

“For what? Joining the lynch mob?” She flinched, and he instantly felt guilty. “Sorry, I… sorry,” he muttered.

“I shouldn’t have sided with that lot against you,” she said, flipping a hand at the group above. “I should have trusted you. I was just scared. And when they all said we had to come here today, to support a fellow Auror, well… We were supporting the wrong one. That’s all.”

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

She squeezed his arm and blinked back tears. “Is… is Draco going to be all right?”

“I don’t know.”

“Tell him I’m sorry for what happened.”

Harry just nodded, his face tight with distress.

She squeezed his arm again and turned for the stairs, leaving Harry to wonder how many other people were going to offer him their condolences and apologies—people who, just a day ago, had called him a dupe and a liar.

At least he could assume that Cho was sincere.

* * *

Harry waited for nearly an hour before Kingsley showed up. By the time to door opened to admit the Minister, he had worked himself into a state, convinced that the delay meant they were going to acquit Warwick. Then he saw the satisfied glint in Kingsley’s eye and felt his heart skip a beat.

“Guilty,” Kingsley said, as he shut the door at his back and strode to the desk. “Twelve years in Azkaban.”

“Bloody hell!” Harry groaned, as the feverish tension drained out of him in a rush.

“Marchbanks was all for giving him a Life sentence on the grounds that ordering a man to commit rape is the same as doing it yourself. She almost talked them round, but the uniform still carries some weight, and Dawlish wouldn’t go down without a fight.”

“Twelve years is good. It sends a message.”

“It does, indeed. And it will likely inspire MacMillan to change his plea, which means I can spare you another trial.”

“That’s the second-best news I’ve heard all day.”

“Here’s another piece for you. We’ve found a home for Lissy.”

“Really? Where?”

“A wizard prison outside Lovikka, Sweden. She’ll live at the prison, with the other house-elves employed to care for the human inmates, and have plenty of work to keep her busy. Aside from the fact that she’ll be confined to the prison grounds, it won’t be much different from working at Hogwarts or the Ministry. Apparently, the Swedish Magical authorities have done this before and found it very successful.”

“That…” Harry scratched his head thoughtfully. “Yeah. That sounds good.”

“Hermione researched it with her usual thoroughness and concluded that it was the only compassionate way to imprison a house-elf. They pine and sicken if they aren’t kept busy, it seems. And they need other elves for company.”

“So, Marchbanks agreed?”

“Yes. We’re transferring her tomorrow.”

“Blimey.”

“Don’t look so stunned, my boy. Things do occasionally work out the way the should. Speaking of which…” He pulled a scroll, sealed with his purple Lynx sigil, from one sleeve and held it out to Harry. “I’d like you to give this to Draco.”

The younger man took it, turned it in his fingers, then shot Kingsley a questioning look.

“Go ahead and open it.”

Harry broke the seal and spread the thick parchment flat. As he read, his brows rose up under his fringe. Finally, he dropped his hands and let the scroll curl up again.

“What is this?” he demanded. “A way to ease your conscience?”

“An attempt to right a wrong. I’d say it’s long overdue, wouldn’t you?”

“It doesn’t make up for what this Ministry has put him through, and I don’t just mean Azkaban.”

“I know that, Harry. I’m not trying to rewrite history or deny my mistakes, just to do better going forward. That’s all any of us can do.”

Harry thought about this for a long, quiet minute. Then he nodded and pushed himself to his feet. “I’ll give it to him.”

“Give him my best wishes with it.”

Harry’s answering smile had no amusement in it. “Funny how everyone’s suddenly so anxious to give him their best wishes. A day ago, they didn’t care if he was alive or dead.”

“I have always cared. For both of you.”

Harry opened his mouth. Hesitated. Then closed it again and nodded. He lifted the scroll in a kind of salute, as he turned for the door.

“Thank you, Kingsley. Goodbye.”

*** *** ***

Draco heard footsteps pounding on the floorboards, running toward the kitchen, and came out of his chair just as Harry burst into the room. He didn’t have to ask what had happened. The look of blazing triumph on the other man’s face said it all. Stepping round the table, he moved to meet his husband.

Harry grabbed him the instant he was in range, pulling him in tight to his chest, then catching his head between his hands. His eyes seemed to bore holes in Draco’s skull, so fierce and bright were they.

“It’s over.” A grin swept over his face. He bent to press his forehead to Draco’s. “It’s all over.”

Draco shut his eyes, took a shaking breath. He felt Harry’s hands tilting his head and Harry’s parted lips coming to rest against his. They were hot. Eager. But they didn’t move, didn’t make any demands, just clung to his open mouth and breathed in the air he exhaled as if it were the sweetest thing they had ever tasted.

“Didn’t I tell you that everything would work out, young man?” Molly said briskly from the other side of the room.

Draco choked on a laugh and pulled back a little—a very little—embarrassed to be caught in such an intimate pose by his adoptive mother. Harry just chuckled and pulled him into another, firmer kiss.

“Why don’t you two go make yourselves comfortable in the living room?” she went on. “I’ll bring you some tea and you can celebrate quietly together.”

“Sounds brilliant,” Harry said. “I have a surprise for you, Dragon.”

“I have one for you, too,” Draco said, a shy smile twitching at his lips. He nodded at the kitchen table and the object resting on it under a tea towel.

“Yeah?” Harry turned to follow his gaze, just as Molly removed the towel with a flourish. His brows flew up. His smile turned quizzical. “Is that a treacle tart?”

Draco nodded, now flushing faintly.

Harry gazed down at the tart, taking in the beautiful lattice-top crust and bubbly-hot filling. His eyes glowed with a heart-stopping combination of hunger and adoration—though which was for the pie and which for his husband, Draco couldn’t quite tell.

“You made me a treacle tart?”

“Mrs. Weasley did the difficult parts.”

“Nonsense,” Molly replied, “all I did was correct your wandwork here and there. And how many times do I have to tell you to call me Molly, you infernal boy? Go on, now. You can have some tart with your tea, but I need my kitchen to myself to finish supper.”

“You made me treacle tart!” Harry shouted gleefully, sweeping Draco up in his arms so his feet left the floor.

Draco obligingly wrapped his legs around Harry’s waist and let the taller man carry him down the hall to the living room.

“You made me treacle tart,” Harry murmured, as he sat down on the sofa with Draco still astride his lap.

Draco cocked an eyebrow at him. “Is that all you’re going to say?”

“What else is there?”

“You could tell me how it went today.”

Harry’s smile faded. “The trial?”

“Being back at the Ministry. Facing Robards.” When Harry said nothing, Draco added, “I know you’ve been avoiding him.”

“How?”

“I’m not stupid, Harry. Damaged, afraid of my own shadow, but not stupid.” He hesitated, then asked the question that had been lying like a lead weight in the back of his mind for days now. “Do you still have a job?”

Harry sighed. “I don’t know. That’s up to Kingsley.”

“There’s really a chance he’ll sack you?”

“No, there’s a chance I’ll quit. I told him I wouldn’t work for Robards anymore, so now he has to decide which of us he needs more.”

The lead weight got even heavier. Draco looked away from his husband’s frowning face, stared emptily at the candlestick on the end table.

“What did Robards do?” Draco finally asked, still not meeting Harry’s eyes.

A warm hand stroked his back and a somber voice murmured in his ear, “Are you sure you want to talk about it?”

Draco flinched. Shook his head. Risked a glance at Harry’s face and asked, “Are you sure you want to give up being an Auror?”

“I don’t know.” Harry sighed and stroked his back again. “I honestly don’t. Sometimes, when I think of handing in my red robes and never working another case, I want to run back and tell Kingsley I was only kidding. That it was all a stupid joke. Other times, I hope that he will choose Robards over me so I can just be done with it. Be with you all the time, with no Dark wizards or dirty politics to distract me from what matters.”

“And you could live with that?”

Harry just smiled and drew him forward to lie against his chest. Then he began to pet his hair. Draco let him do it—let him dodge the question—content simply to listen to his husband’s heartbeat and feel his hands on him. There was no point in forcing an answer from him.

Draco knew perfectly well that whatever Robards had done, it all came back to him. His past, his family, his shit choices. When Harry’s life went down the loo, it always came back to him. But he also knew that it was too late to go back and change anything.

Harry had fallen in love when he was fifteen and, being Harry Potter, had never looked back. It didn’t matter what outrageous, idiotic, self-destructive or flat-out dangerous things his lover did. Harry would forgive it all because he had chosen Draco and would never let him go. And Draco…

Well, he’d lost his mind and his heart the first time he looked into those green eyes behind their ridiculous, crooked glasses. Harry would never give them back, and that was just fine by him. He didn’t want them. They were safer with Harry—always had been—and Draco had already proven that he couldn’t be trusted to take care of himself.

So he and Harry would have to find a way to live with the world they were given.

“Do you want your surprise, Dragon?” Harry asked, interrupting his reverie.

“I suppose.”

Draco pushed himself upright, then slid off Harry’s lap to sit beside him. He watched Harry reach into his sleeve and felt his brows rise when the other man produced a very official-looking scroll. It was sealed with the Minister for Magic’s purple Lynx sigil and fairly crackled with magic when Draco took it in his hand.

Apprehension crawled up his spine. Messages from the Minister did not usually bode well for Draco Potter née Malfoy. He didn’t move to break the seal.

“What’s this?”

“Open it.”

“Harry…”

“Just open it, you prat.”

Licking his lips nervously, he slid his thumb under the seal. It was already unstuck from the parchment. “You read it?”

“Of course I did. You don’t think I’d take anything that comes out of the Ministry on faith, do you?”

The tension in his guts eased and he almost smiled as he unrolled the parchment. His eyes scanned the neatly-penned lines, apprehension turning to surprise, then to confusion. When he got to the signature at the bottom, he lifted his eyes to meet Harry’s.

“Is this real?”

“I got it from Kingsley himself.”

“But… how? Phineas owns the Manor…”

“Not anymore. The Ministry decided that he didn’t need it in St. Mungo’s, so they compensated his estate and took it back.”

“And _gave it to me?_ ” Draco almost shrieked.

“Why not? It should have been yours all along.”

He stared helplessly down at the parchment, face blank and mind reeling with shock. “What… what am I supposed to do with it?”

“Anything you want.”

“ _Anything?_ ”

“Well…” Harry hesitated, pulled a grimace, then said, “You know we’re not living there, right? Because I won’t live without you, Draco, but I won’t live in that ruddy mausoleum, either.”

Draco nodded numbly.

“I thought you’d be pleased.”

“I don’t know what I am. I don’t actually believe any of this is happening.”

Harry chuckled and gathered the other man up in his arms. “Give it a while to sink in, then we can make some plans.”

“Harry, do you have any idea what it costs to run a house like that? I haven’t got a copper Knut to my name. I couldn’t afford to de-gnome the kitchen garden, much less maintain the entire estate.”

“Well, if _that’s_ all you’re worried about, I have more gold than I know what to do with.”

“I couldn’t ask you to…”

“You’re not. I’m telling you, I’ll pay for anything you want to do, including de-gnome the garden.”

Draco shook his head stubbornly, and Harry pulled him in for a kiss.

“Stop worrying,” he scolded. “This is a good thing.”

“I’m not used to good things happening.”

“Oh, thank you very fucking much!”

Draco chuckled and nuzzled a kiss under his jaw. “Prat.”

“I’ll tell you one thing we absolutely have to do.”

“What’s that?”

“Rescue the rest of those Shakespeare volumes—the pretty red leather ones with the gold leaf. I’m dying to finish _Richard III_ , and there’s no copy at Grimmauld Place.”

“That’s because the real Richard was a prominent wizard, and his death was so ignominious that old pureblood families never speak of it. They take it as a personal insult. And they deeply resent the whole hunchback/withered arm/twisted leg thing, which wasn’t true, by the way.”

Harry snorted in amused disgust. “Well, I think the play is brilliant and I want to hear you read the rest of it.”

“Okay.” Draco settled his head in the curve of Harry’s neck and let his eyes drift closed in contentment. “We can put ‘Rescue Shakespeare’ on the to-do list.”

*** *** ***

He awoke from another dream—this one all warmth and firelight and a white cat curled on Draco’s lap—to find himself alone. The space between his own body and the sofa back where Draco always lay was still warm, telling him that the other man had not gone far. He pushed aside the quilts and sat up, staring blearily around at the darkness. Without his glasses, he could only just make out a figure silhouetted against the moonlit window.

“Draco?” The figure stirred, but Harry couldn’t tell if it had turned. “Are you all right?”

“Mm.”

Harry got up, pausing to retrieve his glasses, and skirted the sofa to approach the other man. He stayed carefully to one side and cleared his throat as he drew close, knowing that Draco would panic if he sensed another body at his back.

All those men in Azkaban. All those Death Eaters fucking him into the bars. They’d left a wound that Harry suspected would never fully heal. On his worst days, he could barely tolerate a hand on his shoulder. And only Harry, whom he trusted implicitly, could actually put an arm around him.

Sidling up on Draco’s left, Harry halted beside him and followed his gaze out the window. The moon was nearly full, flooding the garden with crystalline light and throwing stark, black shadows across the frozen ground. The few lingering patches of snow looked clean and white, instead of the dirty grey that Harry knew they were. The shadowof a hunting owl swept across the ground, sending something tiny and furry skittering for the shelter of the hedge.

“What are we looking at?” Harry asked quietly.

“The snow is almost gone,” Draco murmured. He sounded wistful.

“We’ll get more. We’re due for another storm next week.”

“I don’t remember it snowing this much when I was a child. At Hogwarts there was plenty, of course, but back home… I remember waking up on Christmas morning and it would be frosting the grounds, like perfect sugar icing. I used to think that my father made it snow during the night just for me. My first, best present.”

Harry turned to look at him but couldn’t read his expression in the darkness. “Do you miss him?”

Draco hesitated, then, “I think about him. Does that count?”

“Only if it hurts.”

“Sometimes it does. Not tonight.”

“Draco.” Harry turned to sit on the windowsill and face the other man directly. Now he could see his face picked out in moonlight—a perfect porcelain mask, with empty black hollows for eyes. “Are you thinking about the Manor?”

“It was my home,” he answered in a small, haunted voice. “The only home I ever had until…”

“Hogwarts?”

He shook his head. “You.”

Harry reached out to stroke his arm and take his hand.

“I never thought I’d set foot in it again, after Phineas threw me out. I never thought I’d want to, but…”

“But of course you want your home back.”

“It hasn’t been my home for a very long time, thanks to my father and Voldemort.” Those black hollows turned on Harry, and he caught the reflection of moonlight in wide, grey eyes. “What I really want is to forget all about it, just like I want to forget about Phineas and Nero and Warwick and Greyback and… Oh, Merlin, Harry! I wish Lissy had just _Obliviated_ me and left those men alone!”

“No.” Harry drew him close with a hand at the nape of his neck, leaned their foreheads together, and spoke in a soft whisper. “It’s okay to remember. It’s okay to yell and scream and hurt and go a bit loopy, if that’s what you need.”

“I can’t.”

“I’ll be here to hold you together, I promise.”

“I _can’t_ , Harry.”

“That’s okay, too. Whatever you need. But don’t try to forget, love, because that only makes it worse. Trust me, I know. It’s better to look at it now than to bury it ’til it rots, like a body under the floorboards.”

“How picturesque,” Draco murmured, in a valiant attempt at snark.

“Yeah.” Harry grinned. “I’m a regular poet.”

“All that Shakespeare is going to your head.”

“The Bard of Icklesford. That’s me.”

“Harry…”

Sensing the sudden shift in his mood, Harry clasped his head protectively and pressed a kiss to his lips. Draco’s hand crept up to touch his cheek, then slid into the hair at his nape and held him tightly.

“I want to go home.”

Joy leapt in Harry’s heart, only to be replaced by fear. “You don’t mean…”

“I mean _home_.” He looked up into Harry’s eyes, his own glazed with tears. “Our home.” Then he smiled. “I miss my doppelgänger.”

**_To be continued…_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A further note about Wizengamot trials, now that you've survived this one...
> 
> I am fully aware that the Wizengamot scene in this chapter does NOT play like a real trial. That was a conscious choice on my part. I wanted it to move fast and generate some excitement, not plod sedately along until everyone was asleep in their seats. I think this was justified, since JKR gives us very little info about how Wizengamot trials work, and the few we see (Harry's disciplinary hearing; bits of Death Eater trials from the first war) are rather freeform and chaotic. I tried to stay true to the mood and pace of her examples, while telling my own story effectively.
> 
> Mostly, I just wanted you to have fun reading it. I hope you did.


	15. The Body Under the Floorboards (Revised)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A note to my readers** : I want to apologize for not responding to your wonderful comments as often as I should have. The truth is that Social Media is not my natural milieu, and my first instinct is to just put my head down and try not to be noticed. But I've decided that, rather than being low-key and unpushy, I'm actually being rude. That was never my intention! I'm honestly and deeply grateful for every comment I've received, and if my silence came across as indifference or rudeness, I am truly, truly sorry!!
> 
> I know, I'm a slow study. It only took me... how many? _Nine_ stories to get a clue? But better late than never. And for all those unacknowledged comments, I say, THANK YOU FROM THE BOTTOM OF MY HEART!! I really did read and appreciate and obsess over and read again every single one of them!
> 
>  **This chapter has been revised**  
>  The overall shape of the chapter is unchanged, but I made tweaks throughout to improve characterization and flow. Basically, the chapter just needed an overhaul.
> 
> For the original version of this chapter, see the Appendix to the _In the Mirror_ series.

* * *

_The Daily Prophet_

**_ROBARDS TO RETIRE_ **

_In a move that should surprise no one after the events of recent weeks, Minister for Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt yesterday announced that Gawain Robards is retiring from his position as Head Auror, departing at the end of the month. Shacklebolt spoke to an Atrium full of journalists, with Robards and Head of the DMLE Tiberius Crooke beside him. He said nothing about Robards’ reasons for stepping down and made only vague statements about who might be replacing him. Robards did not speak at all._

_Though Shacklebolt refuses to confirm it, his obvious next step is to appoint his long-time protégé and poster-boy, Harry Potter, to the Head’s chair. We can only assume that Robards has been squeezed out, after twenty years of dedicated service to the Force, to make way for the Chosen One. Unless the rumors are true that Potter himself has quit the Force and gone into hiding with his notorious husband, in which case, Shacklebolt is flying without a broomstick…_

* * *

Draco knew he’d made a mistake the instant he appeared on the sitting room rug. He felt that twist in his guts, that surge of _what-the-fuck-have-I-done?!_ panic, that nearly irresistible urge to turn on the spot and disappear, that came with the realization that he had made a truly terrible mistake.

It wasn’t that the cottage was unsafe—Merlin knew, if Harry’s wards couldn’t keep him safe then nothing could!—or that the house didn’t want him. It was Harry’s house, after all, with Harry’s magic living in the walls. It wanted him the way Harry did. Overwhelmingly.

No, the problem wasn’t with the cottage, which was lovely and familiar and comforting and _right._ The problem was with Draco, who was so very _wrong._

His breath hitched, and he made a move to pull away from Harry. To turn on the spot, to apparate back to the peaceful security of his squashy sofa and his Muted room at the Burrow. Then Harry’s arm tightened around him, drawing him into his side, and Harry’s lips brushed his ear.

“All right?”

“Mmh,” was all Draco could manage, but the strong arm, the warm voice, the quiet words steadied him. Gave him a crucial moment to collect himself and swallow his panic.

Harry gestured with his free hand, lighting the fire beside them and the candles set about the room. Obviously, he had been here recently, readying the place for their return. It was instantly warm and welcoming, with only a hint of mustiness in the air to betray how long it had stood empty.

“We’re safe here,” Harry murmured into the hair over his ear. “You know that, right? I’ve still got all the wards and protective spells in place. You’re as safe here as you were in the Burrow.”

Except that he wasn’t. Neither of them were because the threat didn’t come from outside. Not this time. And no wards could protect them from what was happening inside Draco.

During his weeks at the Burrow, he had existed in a kind of stasis. Plucked out of time and allowed to drift. Wrapped up in a charm built of Harry’s love, Molly’s care, Ron’s unflagging support, Ginny’s cheerful acceptance. He had been safe because he wasn’t really alive. Sometimes, he wasn’t entirely sure that his heart was beating.

But now they’d left the Burrow. Stepped back into the real world, where time passed and hearts beat and blood flowed. Where hidden wounds festered and poison spread. Where nightmares didn’t end when he opened his eyes.

Now that he was alive again, it was only a matter of time…

Before he could find words for any of this, a furious white streak erupted through the doorway and shot over to him, meowing imperiously. He reacted without thinking, dropping to a crouch to meet the oncoming missile and scooping it up in his arms. Abraxas gave one final, accusatory meow, then burrowed into his chest and began to purr. Draco let his knees hit the floor and bent to bury his face in the soft, white fur.

It smelled so good. Like home.

“He never lets me hold him like that,” Harry remarked, sounding faintly aggrieved.

“Mmh,” Draco grunted again, then dredged up a few actual words. “He missed me.”

“But not me, apparently, even though I’m the one who feeds him every day and puts up with his snark!”

“And abandons him for weeks at a time with only a spell to take care of him. Magic can’t rub his head.”

“Hmph!” Harry caught his arm to pull him up. “Come sit down, and bring that ingrate with you.”

Guided by Harry, Draco carried the cat over to the settee and took his usual place in the corner closest to the fire. He drew his feet up onto the cushions, settled Abraxas on his lap and began to stroke the cat. Harry perched on the edge of the seat next to him.

“What would you like to do this evening?”

Draco just looked at him, askance. He hadn’t thought any farther than getting here, though maybe he should have. Maybe he needed a list—a very _long_ list—of things to do to distract himself from the poison oozing up under his skin. Unfortunately, he didn’t have one, and now he was stuck. Two minutes in the cottage, and he was already floundering.

“Thanks to Molly, we probably won’t need to eat for a week,” Harry went on, oblivious to the turmoil seething behind Draco’s composed face, “but we could have a glass of wine, or a cup of tea. Maybe have a bath and…”

“Tea,” Draco said hurriedly. “I’d like tea.”

“Right.” Turning away from Draco, he called loudly, “Kreacher!”

There was a sharp _crack_ , and the ancient house-elf appeared in front of them. Abraxas promptly leapt up, hissing, back arched and teeth bared, but did not flee as usual. In fact, he seemed to be intent on protecting Draco.

The elf bowed low to Harry, then even lower to Draco. “Master has need of Kreacher?”

“Yes, we’d like some tea,” Harry said pleasantly.

The elf gave him a reproachful look and said, in his bullfrog’s croak, “Of course Kreacher will bring tea. Of course Harry Potter would only summon him to perform this menial task, when Kreacher has been waiting and waiting for Master Draco’s return, hearing nothing, forgotten by his masters, unworthy even to be told that the last scion of his beloved Family is alive and free!”

“Er…” Draco mumbled, not sure how to respond to this. He absently petted Abraxas, stroking down his bristled fur and trying to soothe him. The cat finally sank down on his haunches but kept his Arctic gaze fixed balefully on the intruder.

“Kreacher expects nothing else,” the old elf went on, bitterly. “He expects no thanks for his part in rescuing Master Draco from imprisonment and torture. He is only an elf, after all, beneath the notice of…”

“Thanks!” Draco blurted out, abruptly stemming the tide of his eloquence. “Thank you, Kreacher, for everything you did.”

 _Whatever the fuck that was,_ he added privately.

The elf bowed again, more deeply still, and fixed doleful eyes on Draco. “Kreacher lives to serve the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. He needs no thanks. He is only glad to see Master Draco again with his own eyes.”

“I’m glad to see you, too,” Draco said politely, if not entirely truthfully.

“Draco Potter is generous to a miserable house-elf. He is a noble wizard, worthy of Kreacher’s service, unlike Kreacher’s master, who forgets all about him then tries to send him away.”

“I didn’t…” Harry began, but Kreacher rolled over him.

“Harry Potter wanted Kreacher to leave his service. He said that Kreacher might go back to Hogwarts, where there are many young witches and wizards who need his care, or to his former mistress’ home, if he would be happy there. But Kreacher cannot be happy if he cannot serve his Family. He will stay with Harry Potter and his most noble spouse until he works himself to death and Master Draco mounts his head on a plaque to hang beside his…”

“Right,” Draco cut him off with a grimace. “Let’s not talk about that. Let’s just have a nice cup of tea, shall we?”

The elf bowed again, this time so low that his ears mopped the floor. Then, with a final, sour look shot at Harry from the corners of his eyes, he disappeared.

Harry groaned and scrubbed his fingers through his hair, looking a trifle sheepish. “I swear, he gets worse every day. I tried to get rid of him, I really did, but I couldn’t just pack him off to Hogwarts after everything he did for us. He’s gotten very attached to you.”

“I noticed.”

He’d meant it to sound dry, but it came out doubtful. Thanks to his recent ordeal, he had learned to view the obsessive devotion of house-elves with suspicion. He wasn’t at all sure that he wanted to live with one bowing and scraping and fawning all over him, his speech to Harry about the duty ancient Wizard families owed to their elf retainers notwithstanding.

Harry caught the wary note in his voice and smiled crookedly. “I know what you’re thinking, but you don’t have to worry about Kreacher. He’s got a bee in his bonnet about his blessed Family, but he’d never do anything stupid or dangerous, even for the last scion of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“I am. For one thing, he’s much too old and cranky. And for another… well…”

“Well, what?” Draco demanded.

Harry looked positively shifty. “Never mind.”

“ _Potter_ ,” he said warningly.

“It’s nothing, really. Ancient history. And Kreacher learned his lesson.”

“Is that supposed to reassure me? Because it doesn’t.”

“He’d do anything for you, all right?”

“So would Lissy,” Draco muttered, just as Kreacher himself appeared with a loaded tea tray.

Both men fell silent. It wasn’t until Kreacher had set down his burden and bowed himself out of the room again, until Harry had poured the tea and handed Draco a cup, that they spoke again. Draco took a sip of the fragrant brew, then spoke to the cup in his hands.

“Did you ever think that maybe house-elves are more trouble than they’re worth?”

“All the time!” Harry replied, with a laugh.

“We live so closely with them, depend on them for so much, entrust all our secrets to them, and then…”

“Yeah,” Harry said softly. Then, more brightly, “You know what Hermione would say about it, don’t you? That we only get what we deserve, when we enslave an entire race of Magical beings, teach them to live only for us, then betray them.”

“I didn’t betray Lissy,” Draco whispered.

“Lucius did.” The words were hard and uncompromising, lying like a brick of lead between them. “Your mother did. I did. All of Wizard kind did, in a way. That makes you just about the only person in her life who didn’t betray her in some way. Which explains why she would…”

“Right,” he snapped, cutting Harry off. He was not going there. “How about some Shakespeare? Where did we leave off in _Antony and Cleopatra_?”

“It’s kind of late for all that poetry, isn’t it? Aren’t you tired?”

“Not tired enough to sleep. Did you bring the book?”

“Yeah, of course.”

Pulling the book from his pocket and returning it to normal size, Harry casually expanded the settee so he could lean up against the arm next to Draco, then flipped to the marked page and held it out.

“You’re up, Cleo.”

“Cleo, indeed,” Draco muttered, taking one side of the book in his hand. “Philistine.” Then he started to read.

Draco kept them at it until they had polished off four cups of tea apiece and the last three acts of the play. Until Harry was yawning hugely and Abraxas had fallen asleep, going limp and heavy on Draco’s thighs. Until Antony and Cleopatra were dead and Caesar was left to dispose of the bodies. Then he had no further excuses.

He closed the book and tossed it onto the coffee table next to the tea tray.

“We’ll have to check in the attics at Grimmauld Place for more plays. Or suck it up and visit the Manor.”

Harry yawned again, his jaw cracking, then raked his fingers through his hair. “Tomorrow. I’m knackered.”

Draco just nodded, eyes skating away.

Harry waited for a moment, studying him with eyes so warm that Draco could feel their touch on his skin. Then he said, gently, “It’s okay if you want to sleep in here.”

“No.” Draco hoisted the cat in his arms and pushed himself stiffly upright. “I can sleep in our bed.”

Or so he bloody well hoped.

He took his time getting ready, lingering in the bathroom for far longer than it took to brush his teeth and put on his St. Mungo’s pajamas. Sure as he was that he belonged in that huge tester bed with Harry, he still needed time to screw his courage to the sticking place. Always assuming that he had any courage to screw.

He leaned close to the mirror mounted above the sink and studied the shadows around his eyes. No bruises, now. No swelling. No cuts or scars. No visible marks left, just the poison seeping up under his skin, black and foul, that no one else could see.

He shuddered and stepped away, dropping his eyes from his own reflection.

The bedroom was quiet when he drifted back into it on bare, silent feet. Harry lay in the bed, curled on his side, facing the door and away from Draco’s usual spot. A faint ball of wandlight hovered near the headboard, giving him enough illumination to find his way across the floor without stubbing his toes. He shivered—not from the chill in the air—and slid under the covers, disturbing them as little as possible.

Harry muttered, “ _Nox,_ ” and the light went out. Then he squirmed back a little, closer to Draco, offering the warmth and support of his body. With a soundless sigh of relief, Draco rolled up tightly against him and shut his eyes.

It took him a very long time to fall asleep.

*** *** ***

Harry awoke the next morning to find himself alone. He lay in bed, contemplating the canopy above his head, wondering what to make of Draco’s behavior last night. And this morning. The sun was barely up, to judge by the light, and he was gone already. Why?

Flinging back the eiderdown, he rolled to his feet and headed for the bathroom. Five minutes later, he strode into the kitchen to find Draco sitting at the table, drinking tea, looking a bit hollow around the eyes but otherwise perfectly fine. He even smiled when Harry came in.

“Good morning.”

“Morning,” Harry replied, bemused. He headed for the hob and the tea pot warming there. “You’re up early.”

“I was feeling restless, like I needed to be doing something. Unfortunately, there’s nothing for me to do around here.” He smiled sheepishly around the rim of his raised cup. “I would’ve made you breakfast, but I only know how to make fudge and treacle tart, and we don’t have the ingredients for treacle tart.”

“I’ll have Kreacher fetch them later. It’s nasty for breakfast, anyway. Much too sweet.”

“I didn’t know that was a concept for you.”

Harry grinned over his shoulder at him, as he began pulling food from the icebox. He quickly got the bacon frying and porridge bubbling. Draco watched with far more curiosity than he’d ever shown about cooking before, making Harry wonder if he’d caught the bug from Molly.

“You want to do the eggs?” he offered, brandishing a cast-iron skillet.

Draco shook his head. “I prefer watching you do it.”

“Hm.” Harry set the skillet down on the flame and expertly cracked two eggs into it. Two more quickly followed, and the scent of eggs frying in butter promptly filled the room. “What you mean is, you like staring at my bum in these joggers.”

“Is that a complaint?”

“No.” Another glance over his shoulder. Another grin—this one with a bit of heat in it. “But maybe I’d like a turn at ogling your bum while you work.”

“I’ll make you some fudge, later,” Draco replied, smiling into his tea once more.

Harry laughed and settled into the routine of whipping up a nice, simple, filling breakfast for his family. He supposed that he could have asked Kreacher to do it, but he enjoyed making things for Draco, just as he enjoyed the feel of Draco’s eyes on him while he did it. Even such a small thing as knowing that the curve of his bum in a pair of thin, ratty, old joggers excited his husband’s interest was balm to his bruised heart.

Draco still loved him. Still wanted him. Still slept curled against his back and admired his arse as he walked by. He might flinch when Harry touched him unexpectedly or shy away from the press of his body. He might panic to find himself in their lovely cottage or the bed where they’d shared so many heated, hungry kisses. He might never lie in Harry’s arms or welcome Harry into his body again. But it wasn’t because he didn’t want it or because he didn’t love him.

It was because of Warwick. And Greyback. And all those fucking men in that fucking prison…

The thought made him angry, and he slapped the plate down in front of Draco just a little too hard, cracking it sharply on the wooden table. Draco looked up at him, eyes wide and questioning. Harry turned quickly away, before the other man could read his ugly thoughts in his transparent face, and by the time he returned with his own plate, he’d pushed them away. Found a smile and an easy word for his husband.

They ate in companionable silence, broken only when Harry got up to fetch a bowl of porridge for Draco, and the other man murmured his thanks. They were done and working on another cup of tea when Draco finally spoke.

“I need to get out of this cottage today. Can we go for a walk?”

“Are you sure you’re up for it?”

“Yes.” He fidgeted with his sleeves, tugging at them with nervous fingers, eyes on the window and the thin Winter sunlight shining through it. “I have to be. I can’t…”

“Draco.” Harry reached over to clasp his wrist and still his twitchy movements. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Harry quirked a wry, disbelieving smile at him, and he flushed. “I just need to keep busy, that’s all.”

“Why?” When he didn’t answer, Harry gave his arm a squeeze. “Come on, Dragon, talk to me. What’s going on?”

Draco swallowed audibly, then spoke to the window in a rough, hurried way that told Harry just how hard he was fighting to keep himself under control. “I’m trying, okay? I’m trying to be adult about this. Sensible. _Brave,_ like a fucking Gryffindor. But it’s harder than it looks when you do it.”

“You don’t have to do it, if you’re not ready.”

“Yes, I do. I can’t go running back to the Burrow and hide under Molly’s skirts.”

“Then hide here, with me.”

“That’s what I thought I could do… why I asked to come home.” He twisted his fingers together, anxiously, and shot Harry a sideways look. “But it doesn’t work that way.”

“I know you’re scared, Dragon, but you really are safe…”

“I just want some fresh air,” he said hurriedly. “I don’t care where we go, but I need to be outside for awhile.”

Harry surrendered—what else could he do?—and gave up trying to pry the truth out of his stubborn spouse. Instead, he shrugged, sent all the dishes flying into the sink for Kreacher to deal with, and went upstairs with Draco to get dressed for an outing. Less than an hour later, they set off down the rutted, muddy lane toward the village.

* * *

Icklesford was not at its best at the tail-end of a cold, wet Winter. Everything looked rather shabby and dirty, with the grass dead and the flowers not yet blooming, but it was still better than tramping through the half-frozen fields. The sunshine, however weak and fleeting, drew the Muggles out of their dwellings and sent them scurrying about the square.

The two young men strolling among them, anonymous as they were with hats pulled down to their eyebrows and scarves wrapped up to their noses, might have passed unnoticed, except that Harry insisted they hold hands as they walked. Icklesford was not exactly lost in another age, but it was still parochial enough to find this a noteworthy sight. More than one person did a double-take and watched them longer than was polite, once they realized that the slighter figure at Harry’s side was as male as he was and not a tall, square-shouldered woman.

Draco blocked out their unwelcome stares, concentrating on the firm pressure of Harry’s hand and the warmth he always drew from his husband’s nearness. He wasn’t ashamed of who or what he was. Wasn’t ashamed to walk hand-in-hand with another man,most especially not _this_ man. So why should he flinch when a Muggle turned to stare?

He was Draco Potter. This was his home. These were his neighbors. He was safe with Harry and life was good… at least for this little slice of time on a sunny, chilly, February day.

They made a leisurely circuit of the square, stopping at the bookstore to pick up a couple of new plays and the grocer’s for milk and tea. When they reached The Three Sisters, Harry halted just short of the tea shop door and tugged his scarf down below his chin.

“Shall we stop in for some scones?”

“We just had breakfast,” Draco protested.

“I always have room for Mare’s scones. And you still haven’t tasted them.” When Draco just stared at the sign swinging above the inn door, saying nothing, Harry urged, “I promise I won’t let her bite you.”

He sighed and nodded, resigned to his fate.

Harry chuckled and swept him through the door before he could change his mind. The divine smell of baking scones struck him full in the face. He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, let a beatific smile curl up above the edges of his scarf.

Harry’s hand squeezed his in warning, right before he called, “Hullo, Mare! Have you got a table for us?”

Draco opened his eyes to see Mare—still square and plain and dressed in those appalling mud-colored slacks—turn from another customer to answer his summons. For a moment, she looked blank. Then Harry pulled off his cap, exposing his wild rat’s nest of hair, and she broke out in a delighted smile.

“Harry Potter! As I live and breathe! I can’t remember the last time you set foot in my shop!” Her eyes shifted to Draco and crinkled warmly at the corners. “And Draco.” There was no mistaking the welcome in her voice. “I’m so glad to see you, my dear.”

Draco tugged off his own knit cap and pulled the scarf away from his mouth so he could offer her a shy smile. “Hello, Mare.”

“I was afraid you’d never set foot in here again, after that dreadful business with Margot.” She shook her head in bewilderment. “That wretched girl! I’ve never heard the like! And I told her as much to her head. ‘My girl,’ I said, ‘you shamed me, that’s what you did! You drove away a new friend and shamed me!’ Well!”

She shook out her floury apron and swept them both with a still-wider smile. “Come sit down, my dears. The best table by the fire, just waiting for you. And a plate of scones on the house, since you never touched yours the first time…”

She bustled them back to a table right in front of the massive hearth of Cotswold stone, talking all the way. Then she stood back, smiling in satisfaction, as they peeled off their many layers and sat down. Harry took the chair to Draco’s left, with his back to the blaze, and very pointedly clasped his hand.

Mare fairly beamed at this. “Draco told me you were married. I should scold you for not telling me yourself, but I expect you had better things to do on your honeymoon than natter with an old woman.”

“We’ve been away or we would have come sooner,” Harry assured her. “We only got home yesterday.”

“And couldn’t wait for my buttermilk scones, eh?”

“Nope.” He grinned up at her, radiating that effortless Harry Potter charm that never ceased to make Draco’s blood boil—with resentment or lust, depending on the circumstances.

Today, it made his cheeks flush and his crotch swell.

“Could you bring us a pot of tea and some of those scones? And don’t stint on the clotted cream!”

“I never do,” Mare retorted.

Then she bustled away, leaving Draco to stare at his husband in helpless lust-fueled longing. Harry threw him a laughing look, brows up under his fringe.

“What?”

“You’re doing it again. Making the whole world love you.”

“Mare loves everyone.” His smile turned taunting. “She’s certainly sweet on you.”

“She’s just embarrassed about that scene with Margot.”

“No, she’s definitely sweet on you. It took me months to rate a ‘my dear,’ and you’ve got one on your second visit. Though, granted, she probably wants to feed and mother you, rather than pinch your bum.”

Draco’s cheeks flamed painfully. “Git.”

“Draco.”

The sudden shift in tone brought Draco’s eyes to him. Harry was leaning forward, pinning him with his most earnest gaze, squeezing his hand hard. Draco’s mouth went dry.

“You’ve got to stop thinking that I’ve got some magical power over people you’ll never have. Or that they only put up with you for my sake. You don’t need magic to make them like you. Just be yourself.”

“What if _myself_ is a nasty little twat with a vicious tongue?”

“That’s not you.” Harry lifted a hand to push Draco’s hair back and cradle his cheek. “You’re beautiful, and you’re fine, and you’re loving. And yes, you have a vicious tongue sometimes, but that’s part of your charm. The point is, you _do_ have charm.”

“Bollocks.”

“People genuinely like you, you stubborn git, and not just because I’m standing beside you.”

“Plenty of them also genuinely hate me, and you’ll never change that, no matter how hard you try.”

“Yeah, well, those arseholes are easy to deal with.”

He arched one brow. “How?”

“Fuck ‘em.”

Draco blinked at him, taking in his solemn expression, the mischievous gleam in his eyes, and felt love swamp him in a tremendous wave.

Harry Potter was a complete and utter fool. A hopeless romantic. A starry-eyed git who still believed—after all these years of war and death and ugliness—that he could make the world over into something good.

He was a fucking idiot.

But he was Draco’s fucking idiot.

On an impulse, he fastened his fist in the front of Harry’s jumper and pulled him into an open-mouthed kiss.

Of course, Mare returned in the middle of it, but Draco wasn’t about to stop for that. Hetightened his grip, closed his eyes, and lost himself in the heat of his lover’s sweet, idiotic, entirely delicious mouth.

Mare transferred their tea service to the table with admirable efficiency, then whisked herself away just as Harry finally pulled out of the ravenous kiss.

“Ta very much!” he called after her and got a wave in answer.

Draco hummed his pleasure at the sight of those lovely, golden-brown scones and the enormous pot of clotted cream beside them. Without waiting for Harry to pour the tea, he grabbed a scone, tore it open, and inhaled the rich, warm scent.

“Oh, _mercy_ ,” he moaned.

“Just eat it, already. That noise you’re making is almost obscene.”

In an act of pure provocation, Draco uttered another moan, more wanton and lascivious than the last, then broke out in a laugh when Harry glared at him.

“Behave yourself,” Harry said sternly. But the twinkle in his eye betrayed him, as did the kiss he snatched before Draco could get the scone in his mouth.

They settled down to enjoy themselves, stuffing scones slathered in clotted cream and strawberry preserves into their faces, then washing them down with tea. Draco honestly thought he had never tasted anything better in his life—except maybe for Harry’s lips with cream and strawberries smeared all over them. He privately vowed to drag his husband here at least once a week for an orgy of eating and snogging.

When they had devoured every last crumb, Harry scooted his chair around next to Draco’s, and they sat very close together, holding hands, Draco’s head on Harry’s shoulder, while they gazed placidly into the fire. It was lovely and warm and peaceful… Until a trio of young women blew into the shop.

They were giggling and whispering, shooting avid glances about the room, looking so utterly out of place that they might as well have been wearing ‘Potter fangirl’ t-shirts. Harry took one look at them, blanched, and cast a surreptitious charm to deflect attention. The two men scrambled into their coats and made a hasty escape, leaving enough Muggle money on the table to pay for their tea.

Out on the pavement, they linked arms and hurried through the square, laughing whenever their gazes met. Up the lane by the church, they paused for a snog—all cold noses and hot mouths, still laughing down low in their throats and humming with pleasure—before continuing on their way. Draco walked lightly, easily, stretching his legs to keep up with Harry’s longer strides, feeling the warmth of their kisses in his blood and the taste of them on his lips.

Content. That was how he felt. Content and happy. Words he couldn’t remember using in… a lifetime.

His mood lasted all the way home but began to fade as the afternoon progressed. Determined to keep busy, he went through his entire meagre wardrobe, cleaning, freshening, dewrinkling, even banishing the dank odor of despair from the clothes he’d worn to Azkaban. That done—all too quickly—he neatened his dressing table and wasted a fair bit of time toying with the jewelry Harry had bought him that he’d never yet worn.

The distractions offered by the bedroom exhausted, he fled to the kitchen and demanded that Kreacher let him help with supper. He learned to peel potatoes with magic—not the culinary adventure he’d hoped for, but it occupied his hands—then moved on to shelling peas and chopping onions. When Kreacher put the assembled shepherd’s pie into the oven and refused point blank to let Draco clean up after him, there was nothing left for Draco to do but to retreat to the garden. There, he huddled on the back stoop, staring at the ruined wall and melted birdbath, trying to think of ways to repair them, until summoned to the table for supper.

He could feel Harry’s eyes on him as they ate. Auror’s eyes. Probing. Assessing. Analyzing. He tried to ignore them, but the longer they sat without speaking, the more burdensome his gaze became.

His plate empty, Draco jumped up and hurried to the sink, where he began washing dishes in the Muggle way. Harry finished his own meal a little more slowly, then dropped his plate in the sink and left without a word. Draco tried not to worry. Just as he tried not to think or to feel or to remember.

He didn’t hear Harry come back in a few minutes later, so the light touch on his shoulder made him jump. A cup slipped from his soapy fingers and cracked perilously on the counter’s edge. He wanted to snap, “ _Fuck,_ Harry! You scared me!” but the silence still sat too heavily on him and he only hissed.

“Leave that for Kreacher and come with me,” Harry said quietly, his hand now resting warmly on Draco’s shoulder.

“Where?”

“You’ll see.”

‘Where’ turned out to be their bathroom, and it was clear that Harry had been busy. The room was drenched in golden candlelight, warm with magic, rich with the scent of sandalwood. The beautiful old Victorian tub was full of steaming water and piled high with frothing bubbles. Fat towels lay draped over a convenient chair. Two glasses of ruby-red wine floated invitingly above the tub. There was even a paperback copy of _Richard III_ , purchased that afternoon, lying ready to hand.

Draco took one look and felt his innards twist with a painful combination of longing and panic.

He couldn’t do this. Couldn’t let his guard down. Couldn’t expose himself this way, even to Harry…

“Draco.” Harry stepped up close to him. Stroked gently down his arms to catch his hands. Drew him forward a step. “Don’t run away from me, please. I can take anything but that.”

Draco shuddered and looked away from the wistfulness in the other man’s gaze.

“I know you’re scared of something,” Harry went on softly. “I’ve watched you since we got home. You’ve been frantic. Never holding still for more than two seconds, like whatever it is will catch you if you do. But when you were with me in the tea shop, you were better. You were calm and happy—you were _enjoying_ yourself—and you weren’t afraid. So I know you can feel safe with me.”

He edged even closer and bent to murmur directly into Draco’s ear, “Let me make you feel that way again. Please. Just climb into the tub, lie back, relax and trust me.”

Draco clenched his eyes shut and held onto Harry’s hands as tightly as he could.

He honestly didn’t know what to do. It was such a little thing for his husband to ask—just a bath, and what was a bath in the grand scheme of things?—when Draco had already denied him so much. And yet…

“Draco?”

He opened his eyes. Lifted his head to find Harry gazing at him with painful intensity. Swallowed the hard lump in his throat, only to find that he had nothing to say.

“Please?”

With a slight sigh, he let his shoulders slump in defeat and turned away to begin stripping off his clothes. If Harry was hoping for a more enthusiastic response, he didn’t betray it, just pulled off his socks and started on his outer flannel shirt. Draco was naked, his clothing tossed in the laundry hamper, before he turned to confront Harry again. He found the other man still dressed in a white t-shirt and pants.

Guilt gripped him.

Were they really back to this? Was he really so fragile that Harry didn’t dare touch him?

Summoning what vestiges of pride he still possessed, he waved a hand at Harry’s clothing and murmured, “You don’t have to do that. I’m not afraid of your naked body.”

“Maybe _I_ am,” Harry retorted, with a grin. Then, more soberly, “I think this will make it easier for both of us.”

Draco tried not to show his embarrassment, turning quickly to climb into the bath. Folding himself down into the hot, wood-scented embrace of the water, he ducked his head to let the steam coat his reddened cheeks. Then, after the barest hesitation, he scooted to one end of the tub and leaned back against the slick porcelain. Harry followed him, claiming the end of the tub opposite his, sinking down ’til the bubbles brushed his chin and lying back with a groan of ecstasy.

The tub had never returned to its original size once they started using it regularly, so it was still so large that Draco felt as if he were in an overheated swimming pool. It was even more noticeable when he sat alone, facing Harry across a veritable sea of bubbles.

He was so far away. Draco didn’t like him being so far away. It felt wrong. He stretched out his legs, stroking his feet up Harry’s calves, anchoring himself with the feel of Harry’s skin and the play of his muscles when he moved to tickle Draco with his toes.

Harry smiled and plucked the wine glasses from the air. Offering one to Draco, he said, “Here, it’s the good stuff.”

 _Why the fuck not?_ Draco thought, as he accepted the glass and raised it to his lips. _If I’m going to lose my fucking mind, I might as well get pissed first._

It was the good stuff. It felt like warm, red velvet in his mouth and filled his head with the flavors of wood and chocolate and purple fruits. He lay back, eyes half-closed, and savored it. Let the heat of the water and the warmth of the wine flow through him, opening doors in his mind… Doors that hid so many secrets…

“You’re trying to get me to talk, aren’t you?”

The words came out of his mouth unbidden. He wasn’t even completely sure that it was his own voice saying them.

Harry eyed him from beneath lowered lashes. “Hmm?”

“The wine. The hot water. The candles. You think all this will make me let my guard down… make me tell you about it…”

“’Bout what?” Harry murmured drowsily.

Draco took another mouthful of wine. “Azkaban.”

Harry’s eyes came all the way open. He stared at Draco, unmoving, his expression unreadable in Draco’s current fuddled condition. Draco lifted his wine glass in a half-mocking salute and took another drink. It flowed down his throat, warming him from the inside out, washing those doors in his mind open wide and letting the secrets pour out to swirl around him in the steaming water.

Like tears.

Like blood.

Like poison.

“He was in the cell.” This time, he felt his lips move to form the words, but the voice still sounded wrong—dark, scratchy, haunted—not like his own. “My father. He was in the cell with me.”

Harry abruptly sat forward, leaning closer without touching him. His face was intent, frowning. He sounded stone-cold sober when he asked, “Why are you telling me this?”

“It’s what you wanted to know, isn’t it? What I saw? What I see every time I…” He shut his mouth with a snap.

Harry contemplated him in silence for what felt like an eternity to Draco’s clouded senses, then he said, quietly and fiercely, “Draco, your father is dead. He wasn’t in your cell.”

“I saw him. He was standing in the corner with Voldemort, watching while his friends raped me.”

“That was just your mind playing tricks on you. He _wasn’t there._ ”

The words kept coming from some place in him Draco hadn’t known existed. He couldn’t stop them or control them. And every one of them tore open another door, ripped open another wound, exposed another hideous secret.

“Sometimes, when they’re inside you, fucking you, even though you hate it and you’d rather be dead than feel it, your body just… responds. You can’t help it.”

“You don’t have to explain,” Harry whispered.

“I tried. I really did. But I was too weak and frightened, and I couldn’t… couldn’t stop myself.”

He lifted his gaze to Harry’s and saw the gleam of tears in the other man’s eyes. The sight struck him like a Stinging hex, jolting him out of his alcohol haze and into sharp focus. Pain clutched him in a brutal fist.

“My father laughed. Every time. Like he could see right through me and knew I really wanted it.”

“Draco, no.”

Harry slithered to the middle of the tub and reached for him, banishing their wine glasses, grabbing his hands, and pulling him forward. They both landed on their knees, facing each other, surrounded by heaps of scented bubbles and curls of steam. Harry lifted wet hands to clasp Draco’s face.

At his touch, Draco’s lips began to tremble. “I shamed myself in front of my father, and he laughed.”

“You didn’t. You _didn’t_.”

“I shamed both of us. I called for you, when I…” His chest heaved on a sob. “ _Fuck! Harry!_ ”

Harry caught him behind the head and pulled him close, tucking his head into the curve of his neck. “I know. It’s okay.”

Draco closed his eyes, feeling the rough cotton of Harry’s t-shirt against his cheek and the soft skin above it. The first hot tears squeezed from between his lashes.

“Greyback was there, too. He howled and wanked himself and said… said I belonged to him… and my f-fucking father _laughed_ …”

“It’s okay, love. It’s okay.”

Harry abruptly fell back against the canted end of the tub, carrying a shaking, sobbing Draco with him. He didn’t touch his back, didn’t try to restrain him, just clasped his head and petted his hair and kept repeating his soothing noises. Draco huddled against him, face burrowed into his neck, the ugly words still spilling from his lips no matter how desperately he wished that they wouldn’t.

“They were there the whole time… Father and Voldemort and that _snake._ It was eating something… something with a _foot… Nngh!_ ” He choked, gagging at the memory.

Harry pressed a kiss to his forehead, murmuring, “Easy. Try to breathe.” Then, longingly, “May I hold you?”

“Please,” he whispered.

Harry’s arms promptly tightened around him. He shuddered with relief, let his body go limp and his tears quicken.

“I don’t want to remember it, Harry, any of it… What they told me, what I said, what I s-saw… Voldemort taunting me, making me admit things, grinning ’til his face split open… And my father standing in the corner, watching, waiting… He’s still waiting, I know it! Waiting to take me with him!”

“No, he isn’t. It isn’t real, Draco, I promise you.”

“How do I know? H-how do I know which is real and which is my mind torturing me?” The words poured out of him faster and faster, his voice scaling up, while he clung to Harry with a strength born of panic, hiding his face in the other man’s shoulder. “They said you weren’t coming for me. They said… they said I’d done all those things, that I was a killer and whore and a slag! That I’d hurt those men! That I’d fucked my father and Snape and- and _Voldemort!_ They said you knew what I was and didn’t want me anymore… didn’t care what happened to me… I just wanted to see you again, Harry! I just wanted to go _home!_ But they said… they said…”

“They _lied!_ ” Harry said furiously. “You know that!”

“How? How do I know?”

“Because I’m _here!_ I’m _right here!_ ”

“What if _this_ is the lie?! What if I’m still back in my cell, with my father, dreaming of you?! What if he’s standing there, watching, _laughing_ … waiting for those men to fuck me to death?!”

“Draco, stop!”

“He’s there, Harry, I know he is! He’s waiting for me! When they’re done, he’ll take me away and I’ll belong to him forever! I’ll be his whore _forever!_ ”

“Draco! Hey!” He caught Draco’s head between his hands, forcing him to look up. “Look at me!”

“I can’t!”

“You can. Draco.”

He finally dragged his eyes open, unable to resist the command in that voice. Harry’s face was only a few inches away, so close that Draco could see every detail, even through the tears clogging his eyes. He looked angry. Frightened. Determined. And so beautiful.

_So beautiful!_

It hurt to look at him and know that he was only a dream. A product of Draco’s madness. A last, tantalizing glimpse of home before he was lost forever.

“Harry…” he whimpered, sounding pathetic in his own ears and not caring.

“Shh.”

“Harry, I’m sorry…”

“No. No apologies. Draco, look at me.” His impossibly green eyes caught Draco’s. Held them. Refused to let them slide away. “Now tell me, what’s the one thing you absolutely know about me?”

He answered immediately, the words coming to him without thought. “You love me.”

“That’s right. Did I stop loving you when you disappeared for three years?”

“No.”

“Did I stop looking for you when everyone thought you were dead?”

“No.”

“Did I leave you in that brothel when I found out what you’d been doing all that time?”

“No.”

He paused for a bare moment, stroking Draco’s wet cheeks with his thumbs, then asked, more softly, “Did you really believe that I wouldn’t come?”

Draco shut his eyes as scalding tears welled up in them. “No.”

“No.” Harry’s lips touched his eyelids, then his cheeks, then his mouth. “Because you know that I will always love you and always want you and always, _always_ come for you.”

He kissed Draco once more, then gathered him close in his arms again. “So trust me when I say, _this_ is real.”

Draco took one hitching breath, slipped his arms around Harry’s waist, and began to cry in ugly, tearing, heaving sobs that threatened to rip his body apart.

* * *

Harry had reheated the bathwater for the fourth time and was feeling a bit like an over-stewed prune, when he realized that not only had Draco stopped crying, he had fallen asleep. The other man lay limply against him, head on his shoulder, face buried in his soggy t-shirt, hair snarled about his face and drifting in the cloudy water. His ribcage rose and fell gently, steadily, beneath Harry’s arms, while his breath tickled Harry’s throat. It was the most quiet and peaceful that Harry had seen him since his return from Azkaban. As if he had finally found a place without nightmares.

Too bad all it took was to cry himself into a coma.

He Vanished the water from the tub and used a Drought charm to dry them both a bit. Then he wrapped Draco in the soft towels he’d laid ready and carried him into the bedroom. Draco stirred when Harry lifted him, mumbling something into his neck, but Harry soothed him with a soft word and he drifted off again.

Laying him out on the bed, Harry dried him with a combination of terrycloth and magic. Then he dressed him in his flannel pajamas, plaited his hair to keep it out of the way, and tucked him beneath the eiderdown. He was stripping off his own damp clothing when Draco opened his eyes.

“Harry?”

Harry dropped his pants and clambered onto the bed, crouching down to bring his face close to the other man’s. He rested a hand on Draco’s head. “Right here.”

Draco looked at him for a long moment, face soft and unguarded, eyes blurred with exhaustion, pupils dilated. Then he murmured, “This is real?”

“Yes, love, this is real.” Harry kissed his hair and smoothed it down. “Go back to sleep. I’ll join you in half a mo’.”

Draco grunted and let his eyes flutter closed again.

Harry moved quickly, anxious to be close to his husband again in their big, warm bed. He cleaned up the bathroom with a few well-chosen spells. Then he dried himself more thoroughly, scrambled into his pajamas, and climbed under the covers.

He was about to turn over, to give Draco a warm back to cuddle against as usual, but was halted by a fist in his shirt. Draco grabbed him and tugged him close, tucking his head under Harry’s chin. Harry hesitated for a beat, then wrapped the other man up in his arms.

He fell asleep in minutes, a smile on his face and his dragon lying against his heart.

**_To be continued…_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed this bit of domesticity and angst! Thank you for your comments and kudos. They keep me writing through the rough bits!


	16. Epilogue: The Lovers in the Mirror (Revised)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Here we are at last, at the end of the story! 
> 
> Thank you, thank you, from the bottom of my heart for reading and commenting and sticking with me so long! I hope the ending doesn't disappoint!
> 
> Enjoy...
> 
>  **This chapter has been revised**  
>  This is another one that needed a complete overhaul. I have reworked all of the scenes, especially the key conversations, and completely rewritten the scene at the Manor gates. I'm still not particularly happy with it, but I hope it's better than it was before. I've also added some bits to the scene inside the gardens that I cut the first time for the sake of brevity and later decided that I really needed.
> 
> For the original version of this chapter, see the Appendix to the _In the Mirror series_.

* * *

_The Daily Prophet_

**_CHOSEN ONE CHOSEN AGAIN_ **

_…If the rumors of McTeagle’s ouster and Potter’s appointment prove true, Harry Potter will become the youngest Head Auror in the history of Wizarding Britain. Just the latest in a long line of responsibilities and honors laid on the Chosen Shoulders…_

_…Many influential figures in the wizarding community have expressed concern at Shacklebolt’s blatant favoritism and Potter’s evident inadequacy for the job, to say nothing of the unfairness to McTeagle, who will be squeezed out of the top job after less than two years. But as usual, the Minister for Magic is deaf to advice or warning…_

_…Shacklebolt and McTeagle refuse to comment on the rumors. Potter, as always, remains unapproachable…_

* * *

_— Eighteen months later —_

Draco stared at his reflection in the full-length mirror, gnawing his cheek in doubt. He tugged at the hem of his shirt where it brushed his thighs. Then he reflexively smoothed his sleeve down over the jagged scar that poked out from beneath the rolled cuff.

His eyes dwelled on the long lavender silk shirt. The snug-fit jeans with their swirls of colorful embroidery climbing his legs. The silver-blond plait that hung over his shoulder and well down past his waist.

His dissatisfied frown deepened.

The face and hair were all right—nothing he could do about them, anyway—but the clothes were another matter entirely. Lavender was an old-lady color. It reeked of tatted lace doilies and too many cats. It did match the embroidery on his jeans, which was why he’d chosen the shirt to begin with, but then again, maybe the jeans were all wrong. Maybe he needed to strip off and start over. Except that Harry loved these jeans and had practically begged him the wear them…

Salazar’s _cock!_ Getting dressed shouldn’t be this sodding difficult!

He huffed and forced himself to stop twitching at his clothing. Dropping his hands to his sides, he straightened his shoulders and glared at the man in the mirror.

His reflection glared back at him—slim and pale and angular, all long limbs and longer hair—a familiar sight and yet, in some ways, so different from the ghost who had haunted his mirror for so long. He had softened with the fading of his fears and the return of health, filled out just enough to lose his cutting edge. Lean, now, rather than thin. Graceful rather than predatory. The shadows around his eyes gone, along with the bruises and scars and subtle poisons, and the eyes themselves able to look him in the face without flinching or sliding away.

It had taken him months to get to this place. Years, really, if he went all the way back to that terrible Summer when he first met Draco the Rent-boy in his mirror. He couldn’t think of those years without his innards going cold. But somehow, he had survived them and found his way here—to Harry, to this life, to this lovely cottage and this mirror, where the man looking back at him was…

Beautiful.

That’s what Harry said, anyway.

Draco cocked his head, studying his reflection critically, while his fingers played unconsciously with the hem of his shirt.

Harry thought he was beautiful.

Harry never asked him to put on wizard’s robes or a three-piece suit. Harry never questioned why he shunned anything in black or Slytherin green. Harry bought him embroidered jeans and lavender silk shirts and jewelry. Harry combed his ridiculously-long hair, running his hands through it as if it were the most precious thing he had ever touched, then plaited it lovingly and brushed it aside to press kisses to the nape of his neck.

Harry loved him just as he was—Merlin only knew why—and if he were here now, he would laugh at Draco for being ridiculous. He would insist that he had nothing to worry about, that he didn’t need to change a thing, that what other people thought of him didn’t matter a damn. And every other day of the year, he would be right.

But not today.

Today, it mattered. How Draco presented himself mattered, and not just—as was so often the case—because of how it reflected on Harry. Today was as much about him as it was about Harry, and that really was the crux of the problem. Ironic and ludicrous as it seemed for a former Malfoy, Draco wasn’t comfortable being the center of attention.

He tugged on his shirt, frowning again.

“Hey.”

Draco shifted his gaze from his own reflection to that of the man standing in the bedroom doorway.

Harry’s eyes met his and crinkled up in a smile. “Ready to go?”

Draco scowled. “No.”

Crossing the distance to where Draco stood with his long, easy stride, Harry let his eyes sweep Draco’s reflection and his smile widen.

“You look ready to me.”

Draco studied his husband, his scowl deepening.

Harry, as always, looked perfect without trying. Without actually _achieving_ perfection, which never failed to irritate Draco. His unruly hair that looked like it hadn’t been combed in a week, his crooked glasses, his cargo pants with their stretched-out pockets and baggy knees, his faded moss-green shirt slipping loose from his waistband in back—they were all typical Harry and would make anyone else look pathetic. They just made Harry look gorgeous and unaffected and lovable and all the things he was so effortlessly but that Draco could never be.

It was incredibly unfair. And incredibly hot.

Draco tore his gaze away from the other man before he lost his head and resumed contemplating his own unsatisfactory image. “I can’t go out looking like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like one of my grandmother’s antimacassars.”

Harry blinked. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Never mind.” Draco turned away, reaching for the shirts hanging in the wardrobe. “I have to change.”

“Draco, seriously, what’s wrong with the way you look?”

“Everything.”

“Can you be a little more specific?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. Shook his head.

With a warm chuckle, Harry looped his arms around Draco and pulled him into his chest. Draco didn’t flinch or try to pull away, so he snugged their bodies together and propped his chin on the smaller man’s shoulder. Their eyes met in the mirror.

“Draco, my darling, love of my life, fire of my loins. You are utterly ridiculous.”

“Yes.” Draco gave him a level look. “Yes, I am. Now, may I change my clothes?”

“No. No one is going to care what you’re wearing. No one is going to judge you for whatever it is that makes you feel like an antima-thingy.”

“Antimacassar. Honestly, Potter, were you raised in a barn?”

“A cupboard, which isn’t too far off. Luckily, I have a husband who might as well have gone to fucking Finishing School to educate me. What’s an…” He paused again, making a show of hunting for the word that didn’t fool Draco for a second, then said with exaggerated care, “… _antimacassar?_ ”

“Decorative cloth that you drape over the backs and arms of chairs to keep the upholstery clean. Obviously.”

“Oh. Obviously.” A wicked smile twitched Harry’s mouth. Green devils danced in his eyes. “And what, my ridiculous love, makes you think you look like you belong draped over the back of a chair?”

Draco almost choked on his own tongue at the image this conjured in his head. “Potter!”

“Don’t ‘Potter’ me in that tone of voice! I asked a perfectly reasonable question!”

“And I’m going to hex your bollocks off, if you don’t behave yourself! I have to get dressed, or we’re going to be late!”

“You look perfect just the way you are,” Harry said, suddenly earnest. “Don’t change a thing.”

Draco rolled his eyes, and Harry sighed in exasperation.

“Just relax and be yourself, you twat.”

“This is important, Harry” Draco insisted. “I can’t fuck it up. That means, I _can’t_ be myself.”

“Bollocks. We’ll be among friends. People who love you for who you are.”

“What about the Press?”

“Today, even the Press will love you.”

Draco snorted at that but couldn’t quite repress a smile. Harry’s stubborn optimism was endearing, even if it was borderline insane. He sucked in a steadying breath and met the other man’s eyes squarely.

“You really believe that, don’t you?”

“To my marrow.”

“Have you ever considered that you’re the only person daft enough to love me for who I am?”

“What about Ron?” Harry countered. “Or Hermione? What about Hagrid? Ginny? Luna? _Teddy?_ That kid adores you! He never stops chattering about his fabulous Cousin Draco with the really, _really long_ hair! Honestly, I’m not going to list all the people who love you because it will only puff you up and make you more insufferable than ever!”

Draco smiled dutifully at this, but it didn’t last. He regarded their two faces, hovering so close together in the mirror, and started gnawing his cheek again.

“You’re going to chew a hole in your face that way,” Harry said pleasantly.

Draco gave a short, wry laugh, then suddenly broke away from him. Crossing to the dressing table in a few strides, he pulled open the left-hand drawer.

Harry was right. If he was going to do this at all, he had to do it properly. He had to step out of the shade and show Draco Potter to the world, not some dumbed-down or washed-out version of him, but the real thing—lavender silk and all. Otherwise, what was the point?

He opened a velvet box that lay in the drawer and pulled out a piece of jewelry—a simple bangle made of polished silver set with moonstones. Slipping it over his left hand, he let it fall around his wrist and studied the effect in the dressing table mirror. The oval stones caught the sunlight pouring through the window and sparkled blue and purple.

“That’s beautiful.”

Harry was close beside him, having crossed the room silently while he stared at the bracelet. He caught Draco’s hand. Lifted it. Dropped a kiss on the tip of the scar showing below his cuff, then another on the pulse-point in his wrist and another in his palm.

“You’re beautiful.”

“You always say that,” Draco murmured wistfully.

“That’s because it’s always true.” He wrapped an arm around Draco’s waist and pulled him in so he could kiss his lips. “And today you’re even more beautiful than usual. So beautiful that the whole sodding world is going to fall in love with you.”

Draco smiled. Combed the thick, curling mop of black hair back from his forehead to expose his lightning bolt scar. Pulled his head down so he could press his lips to it. “Prat.”

“Are you ready to do this, Dragon?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

*** *** ***

Wiltshire in the Summer. It didn’t get any lovelier than this.

Fields glowed green and gold and poppy-red in the mellow sunshine. Trees rustled on a slight breeze. Birds twittered in the hedgerows. Bees zipped from flower to flower, legs fat with pollen. Rabbits nosed in the grass and voles poked sleek heads from their burrows. It was perfect. So perfect that it might have been plucked from Draco’s childhood memories and brought to life just for him.

Then some sodding idiot had gone and filled it with people.

Some sodding idiot called Harry Potter.

How in bleeding hell had he let Harry talk him into this? _Friends_ , he’d said. _They’ll love you for who you are_ , he’d said.

Bollocks!

For every familiar face in the mob that filled the narrow country lane—Andromeda, Teddy, Hagrid, several Weasleys—he could see a handful of strange ones. And even some of the familiar ones weren’t exactly friendly. George Weasley? The surviving Terrible Twin had never gotten past prickly and snarky with his adoptive brother. Dennis Creevey? He was an ally in the Press, no question, but Draco hadn’t been this close to him since Hogwarts—since he’d stolen his dead brother’s identity and dragged it through the mud of Knockturn Alley—and had no idea how he’d react to finding himself face-to-face with the infamous Draco Malfoy.

Then there were the other reporters. Three of them, at least, that Draco could spot at a glance, and none of them smiling. The spiky witch standing next to Creevey looked as if she were itching to spear something on her quill, just for the pleasure of hearing it squeal.

Draco shuddered and groped for Harry’s hand, clutching it fiercely, trying not to notice that his husband’s fingers were trembling as much as his own were.

Sodding Gryffindor. He was supposed to be the brave one. The hero. Why was he shaking?

Tilting his head toward the other man, he muttered from the corner of his mouth, “Now what?”

Harry gave a huff of nervous laughter and squeezed his hand. “I’ve got this.”

“Sure, you do.”

Lifting his free hand for attention, Harry cleared his throat. “Hullo, everyone!”

An expectant quiet gripped the crowd. All eyes turned on the two young men standing together before the tall, wrought-iron gates, hands tightly—almost desperately—entwined. Draco swallowed nervously. He was suddenly sure that his shirt was sticking to his back in sweaty patches and his plait coming undone.

Harry tightened his hold on Draco’s hand for a shot of courage and opened his mouth again, but before he could get a word out, a strange voice called from the back of the crowd.

“Tell us about your new job, Potter!”

“I don’t have a new…” Harry began, only to be cut off by the spiky-looking reporter.

“Rumor has it that Shacklebolt is sacking McTeagle and making you Head Auror!”

“You should know better than to listen to rumors,” he retorted, an edge of annoyance in his voice.

“How does your _husband_ feel about it?” She let the word ‘husband’ slither out of her mouth like a particularly foul-tasting slug. “Is he looking forward to chatting up his old customers over cocktails at Ministry functions?”

A surge of noise—hoots, catcalls, coarse laughter, embarrassed titters—met this jab, nearly drowning out Molly’s horrified, “Oh! That’s _quite_ enough out of you, young lady!”

George waited for the furor die down just enough to be heard, then snarked, “Still rubbish at speeches, then, Harry?”

That seemed to open the floodgates.

Everyone began talking at once. The reporters shouted intrusive questions, while Hagrid rumbled at them all to leave Malfoy alone, and Teddy badgered Harry to open the gates in his most over-excited, earsplitting tones. George only made matters worse by siding with Teddy, which dragged his brothers into the fray and increased Molly’s ire.

Then Granger—helping no one—chimed in with, “Will everyone _please_ let Harry speak?”

Harry, meanwhile, was pounding his forehead lightly on Draco’s shoulder and muttering, “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” under his breath.

Draco took one look at the chaos brewing around them and heaved an inward sigh of defeat. Then, lifting his chin arrogantly to mask the fear squirming in his guts, he stepped forward and cleared his throat.

It took the crowd a minute to realize that the despised Draco Malfoy was actually daring to speak. Then, quite suddenly, the chatter and laughter stilled to a tense silence. All eyes fastened on Draco, making his skin crawl and his face heat.

_They’ll love you for who you are._

The words echoed ironically in his head again, bringing a smirk to his face.

Fat fucking chance, but it was too late to back down now. Time for a bit of Malfoy Snark.

“Good afternoon,” he said coolly, “and thank you all for coming. My name is Draco Potter.”

He said it lazily, almost tauntingly, and paused to let someone in the audience snort.

“I only remind you because some members of the Press seem to have trouble with the name.” Turning his most innocent gaze on the spiky reporter, he lifted his brows and asked, sweetly, “Shall I spell it for you? That’s P-O-T-T-”

A tentative ripple of laughter moved through the crowd, cutting him off.

The spiky witch gave him a murderous glare, but Creevey grinned and winked. Beside him, Harry was radiating pride like a sun gone supernova. Draco felt himself relax a little.

He could do this.

“As I was saying, my name is Draco Potter, and on behalf of my husband and myself, I’d like to welcome you to our grand opening event. I’m no more fond of public speaking than Harry is, but a grand opening requires a speech. And as my otherwise-brilliant husband is incapable of uttering three words without tripping over his own tongue, the honor falls to me.”

His eyes scanned the mass of closed, wary faces confronting him, and one corner of his mouth quirked up ruefully.

“I know. I’m not happy about it either. But I promise to keep it brief.”

“Cheers, mate!” Ron called happily.

This time, the laughter was more natural, as was Draco’s smile. He was still smiling when he let his gaze sweep the audience once more. Unfortunately, his brain chose that exact moment to dry up.

He had no fucking idea what to say to these people.

So, in desperation, he summoned his inner Gryffindor, opened his mouth, and just started talking.

“Behind me, as you know, are the gates to Malfoy Manor. The Malfoy family has traditionally kept them closed, both as a physical barrier to shut out the world and as a symbolic one to emphasize their superiority over it. This has been true for centuries, ever since a Malfoy crossed the Channel with the army of William the Conqueror and laid claim to this land. Over the centuries, these gates have come to stand for all that is worst in our world—pureblood privilege, hoarded wealth and power, hubris, entitlement, cruelty.” He broke off and grimaced. “Catastrophically bad judgement.”

That earned him another amused snort.

“Well, today all of that ends. Today, the gates that have remained closed for so long open, the barrier comes down, and the Malfoy land becomes the property of all Wizarding Britain.”

He paused for a moment, and the spiky-looking witch jumped in to sneer, “You’re giving us the haunted mansion where You-Know-Who tortured and killed countless victims? Where he rallied his armies and plotted the enslavement of our world? How generous of you, and how… _tasteful._ ”

Draco refused to rise to the bait, though he could practically hear Harry seething beside him. He squeezed the other man’s hand to rein him in and waited for the hum of noise to die down again.

Then he said, calmly, “This estate is more than one manor house, and its history goes back long before my father or Lord Voldemort got their hands on it.”

He tactfully ignored the audience’s collective flinch at the sound of Voldemort’s name.

“Generations of powerful wizards have poured their magic into this place until you can feel it in the grass and taste it on the wind. Voldemort couldn’t destroy it, with all the atrocities he committed here. Nothing could. Now Lucius and Voldemort are gone, the Manor is gone, but the magic is still here, and if you’re willing to step through these gates, you’ll feel it.”

This time, when he paused, no one dared break the silence.

After a beat, Draco turned to face the gates and drew his wand. As he swept it in an arc above his head, murmuring a spell, the wrought-iron scrollwork arching over the gates began to curl and writhe, reshaping itself. When it stopped, the words _Manor Magical Gardens_ filled the arch. A neatly hand-lettered sign appeared on the post to Draco’s right that read:

_All Magical Beings welcome.  
Please don’t tease the garden gnomes or grindylows._

He gave those watching a moment to absorb what they saw, then placed both hands on the wrought iron bars of the gates. They shuddered, recognizing his touch, and swung silently inward to frame a manicured gravel carriageway between flowered borders. Neatly-mown grass swept away to either side of the drive, while a graceful glass-and-steel structure gleamed at its top, surrounded by a riot of color and shaded to the West by the green wall of a hedge-maze. Sunlight poured over the scene like liquid honey, making it shimmer with warmth and magic.

A nearly soundless ripple of wonder went through the crowd at the sight.

Draco stuck his wand in his pocket before turning back to face them and, in a half-ironic gesture, lifted his empty hands where they all could see them.

“Welcome to the Manor Magical Gardens,” he said. “Now that the gates are open, they will never close. Anyone with a wand, or a magical signature equivalent to a wand, may pass through them. That means any Magical being, be it witch, wizard, giant, werewolf, veela, vampire, goblin or elf, is welcome here, and these grounds—so long isolated from our world, kept for the pleasure of an elite few—now belong to the magical world.”

There was a beat of awkward silence, then the spiky-looking witch spoke up again. 

“What is this, Malfoy? Some kind of ploy to insinuate yourself back into wizarding society? To buy yourself a pardon with a bit of land?”

Before Draco could respond, Harry jumped to his defense, saying hotly, “He doesn’t _need_ a pardon. He doesn’t need anything from _you_. So either shut it and listen or bugger off!”

The witch went a shocking shade of red, her lips thinning into nonexistence, but she didn’t move.

“She’s got a point, though,” a sour-faced wizard insisted. “You’re asking us to believe that all you’ve got in there is some pretty flowers…”

“It’s a bit more than that,” Draco said wryly.

“Yeah? Like what? I’ve heard the stories about what Lucius got up to in that precious Manor of his, and according to the _Prophet,_ you’re no better than your Death Eater father.”

A murmur of speculation ran through the crowd, until Harry took a step forward and fixed the wizard with a quelling stare.

“We’re not here to discuss what the _Prophet_ has to say about Draco or his father. We’re here to open our gardens to the public. That’s it.”

“So, it really is just a garden?” a nervous-looking witch ventured.

Harry broke out in a sudden, dazzling grin. “Not _just_ a garden. The most beautiful, magical garden in all of Britain! Maybe in the entire wizarding world!” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder at the view through the gates. “As you can see for yourself.”

“But… is it safe? Only, after You-Know-Who lived there…”

“Completely safe,” Harry said earnestly. “We cleared out every trace of Voldemort and his followers, every spell, artifact and stick of furniture that they touched. Then we razed the Manor to the ground and filled in the dungeons, for good measure. There is nothing inside these gates that can hurt you. You have my word on it.”

Bill Weasley spoke up in his deep, lazy voice. “And mine. I was one of Curse-breakers who inspected the grounds, after Harry and Draco cleaned them out, and I didn’t find so much as a whiff of Dark magic anywhere. They did a remarkable job.”

“Course they did,” Hagrid rumbled. “They’re brilliant, aren’ they?”

That got a nervous laugh from some of the crowd that quickly faded.

In the ensuing silence, Harry exchanged a look with Draco, brows up under his fringe and eyes twinkling. “What do you say? Is it time?”

“I’ve certainly done enough talking.”

“Right, then. You do the honors.”

Draco nodded and stepped to one side. With a sweep of his arm, he gestured to the open gates and the drive beyond.

“The Manor Magical Gardens are now open. Please come in.”

* * *

It felt strange to walk through his family’s gardens and hear excited voices. Children shrieking in delight. _Laughter_.

In the past months, Draco had grown used to seeing them without the somber stone bulk of the Manor louring at their center, throwing its long shadows across the lawns and shrubberies. The estate looked so much bigger this way. Bright and rich with color in the sunshine. Magical, just as he had hoped. But he didn’t think he’d ever get used to all that laughter.

Harry had skived off to the Quidditch pitch with Teddy. Without him, Draco felt both too exposed and comfortably invisible. No one seemed interested in the despised Malfoy heir, so he could drift unnoticed through gardens that had once been his domain. He was skirting the hedge-maze, making for the wilder, less manicured fields to the South, when Ginny Weasley suddenly popped up at his side.

“Hullo, Malfoy,” she chirped. “I thought I’d find you skulking in the shrubberies.”

He was actually glad to see her, but he didn’t let it show. Pasting a smirk on his lips, he drawled, “Look who’s talking, _Ginevra._ Hiding from your adoring fans, I suppose?”

“Maybe. Or maybe I’m just hoping to get lost in the hedge-maze for a couple of hours with Harry’s notorious husband and start a really juicy scandal.”

Draco snorted and rolled his eyes, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. Ginny always made him smile, even when she insisted on calling him Malfoy and said deliberately provocative things. He was glad that, if anyone had to waylay him today, it was her.

“I can see the headline now.” He swept his hand in a dramatic arc. “‘Bent Pariah Blackens Name of Britains Most Beautiful Quidditch Star.’”

“That has a nice ring to it.” She slipped an arm through his and gave it a companionable squeeze. “But you’re not a pariah today. After that performance at the gates, you’re a media darling.”

That earned her another, more derisive snort.

“Seriously. You handled that beautifully, _and_ you spared us one of Harry’s truly painful speeches!”

“Poor Harry. He promised so faithfully that he would protect me from the bloodthirsty journos.”

“He seriously needs to get over his saving-people thing. You don’t need his protection.” Making a show of looking around for the missing Harry, she asked, “Where is he, anyway? I’d have thought he’d be glued to your side, ready to hex anyone who looks cross-eyed at you.”

“Apparently, my charms are nothing when compared to those of five-year-olds on broomsticks.”

“Even in those jeans?” Ginny needled, a wicked glint in her eyes as they raked his slender form.

Draco gave her a severe look that only set her off laughing. “You are shameless.”

“That’s what you love about me.” She gave his arm another squeeze and started walking, forcing him to fall into step beside her. “I’m glad Harry’s busy. That means I can get a personal tour of the Malfoy estate from the man who knows where all the skeletons are buried.”

“We dug up the skeletons when we demolished the Manor.”

She chuckled, then turned wary eyes on him. “That was a joke, wasn’t it?”

He shrugged. “Mostly.”

That earned him a brighter laugh, but her voice was sober, almost awestruck, when she said, “You really tore it down? Your family home?”

“There was no point in trying to save it.” He felt barely a twinge as he said it and was quietly proud of himself. “And no way to get rid of the Dark magic without taking it apart.”

“Is there anything left?”

“Just the conservatory.” He nodded at the tall, graceful structure that stood alone at the top of the carriageway, surrounded by a rose garden in full, riotous bloom. “I needed somewhere to put all the valuable magical plants after I tore down the greenhouse, and that seemed the logical place.”

Thankfully, she didn’t ask why he’d felt the need to tear down the greenhouse. She was still focused on the Manor. “What about everything inside it? The family portraits and the furniture?”

“My mother took a lot of it. Harry and I kept some books and photographs. And a piano.”

“A piano? Do you play?”

Draco just nodded, eyes dwelling distantly on the patch of ground where his childhood home had once stood.

Ginny caught his wistful of mood and, with her usual swift kindness, diverted his attention to something less painful.

“Shall we explore the hedge-maze? What’s in the middle of it, anyway?”

He summoned a half-smile at that. “I’m not telling.”

“Well, then, you’ll just have to take me through it so I can see for myself. _And_ live with the gossip when the journos catch us coming out. Oh, Look!”

She halted her move toward the maze, distracted by something else. Then, suddenly, she was hurrying in the opposite direction, pulling Draco along with her.

“It’s Dennis. Oi, Dennis!”

At her call, a boyish figure, standing alone at the center of an elaborate knot-garden, started and looked around.

Draco recognized him instantly and tried to detach himself from Ginny’s grip. Dennis Creevey was probably the last person he wanted to encounter today. Especially in that particular spot.

“I don’t think we should…” he began.

Ginny cut him off with a snort and waved enthusiastically at the other man.

Creevey did not respond. He just watched them weave a path through the knot-garden, drawing ever closer, until they could clearly see his pale, solemn face and eyes bright with unshed tears. His gaze was fastened on Draco in a disconcerting way.

They reached the center of the garden, where a graceful marble birdbath stood on a carved pedestal, surrounded by bed of crimson and yellow flowers. Creevey had obviously been staring down into the basin when they disturbed him. He still stood with one hand on the rim.

Nodding a greeting to them, he murmured, “Hullo, Ginny. Draco.”

“Hullo! What have you found?” Ginny asked. Then, her brows snapping together in a frown when she registered his distress, “What’s wrong?

“Leave him alone,” Draco said under his breath.

Creevey gestured wordlessly at the birdbath, drawing Ginny forward to peer into it.

Draco didn’t look. He didn’t need to. He knew exactly what she was seeing—a wide, flat basin set with a colorful mosaic pattern of flowers and songbirds, words inscribed in gold across its center that read:

_In memory of   
_ _COLIN CREEVEY  
_ _who lived joyfully   
_ _and died bravely_

“Oh, it’s _beautiful,_ ” she breathed.

Dennis shifted awkwardly, his feet scraping on gravel, and asked in a strained voice, “Did you do this?”

Draco reluctantly cut him a glance, met his frowning eyes, and was immediately struck by how young Creevey was. A year out of Hogwarts at most, still only a boy, and yet a casualty of war like all of them. Like Colin.

“Yes,” he said quietly.

“Why? Why would you do something like this for my brother?”

Draco had to press his lips very tightly together to control their trembling before he answered.

“I thought I owed it to him. I took his name without permission, and I didn’t treat it well, but without it, I would have died or gone to prison. So, in a way, your brother saved my life.”

He let Dennis digest this for a moment, then asked, a touch of pleading in his voice, “Did I make a mistake?”

“What?” Creevey looked up, startled, eyes wide. “No!” Then, more thoughtfully, “No, it’s brilliant. I just didn’t expect something like this from…”

“A Slytherin? A Malfoy?”

“A stranger.”

Draco just nodded. Dennis suddenly thrust out his hand for Draco to take. As they clasped and shook hands, Draco asked, “Did Colin like birds?”

“Yeah, he did, actually. He was always trying to take pictures of them, but he couldn’t get a good one. They never hold still.”

Draco almost smiled. “That’s what made me think of him.”

Dennis gave a slightly soggy laugh and let go of his hand. “Thank you, Draco. I wish I could bring my whole family to see it.”

“You can, if you like. The wards will let you bring them through, kind of like at Diagon Alley.”

His face brightened dramatically. “Really? Cool! Wait’ll I tell my mum!” Then he waved a farewell and bounced away, once more the bumptious, exuberant Creevey of their Hogwarts days.

“That was very sweet of you, Draco,” Ginny said, slipping her hand through his arm again. “Are there any other memorials in the park?”

“A few, tucked here and there, but not enough to make it morbid.” They started walking again, drifting out of the knot-garden and across the drive to an open lawn. “There’s one for your brother—a disappearing step in the Quidditch stands.”

Ginny gave a spurt of laughter. “Harry’s idea, I’m sure!”

“Of course.”

“How much work did you have to do to this place? Besides tearing down the Manor and putting up birdbaths, I mean?”

“Well, tearing down the Manor was the worst of it…”

They were strolling through tall grass dotted with wildflowers, headed in the direction of the willow grove, Draco trying to explain what it had taken to break the complex spells that bound the stones of the old Manor together, when they spotted Luna Lovegood meandering through the field. She held a bunch of wildflowers in her hand and wore a woven crown of them on her pale hair. When she saw her friends, she waved and veered toward them.

“Hello, Draco. I’ve been exploring your beautiful grounds. I didn’t get to see very much of them when I was here the last time.”

“Er…” Draco mumbled, flushing at the thought of just how little Lovegood could have seen from the Manor dungeons.

“Weren’t there peacocks?” she asked, blithely unaware of his discomfort. “Huge, white peacocks that screamed at night?”

“Yes, my father always kept a few of them on the estate.”

“What’s happened to them? Nothing horrible, I hope. Not that I cared much for them. They were quite ill-tempered, and their screams gave me the shudders.”

“Nothing too horrible. My mother took them.”

“Oh, that’s all right, then.” She fixed her prominent eyes on him, then swiveled them to Ginny. “You two look very sweet, walking arm in arm together.”

She said it in all innocence, but Ginny, being Ginny, could not help turning it into something else. Pulling Draco’s arm tightly to her chest, she cooed, “We do, don’t we? I’ve decided that Draco is my next celebrity conquest. I plan to snog him senseless in front of the journos, and when our picture turns up on the front page of the _Prophet,_ there will be the most terrific scandal! Harry will have to challenge me to a duel!”

Draco flushed still more furiously and tried to pull away, but her grip was like iron.

Luna _tsked_ softly. “Don’t, Ginny. It’s unkind of you to embarrass poor Draco like that.”

Then—because one embarrassing female was never enough—she plucked a wildflower from her bouquet and stuck it into his plait.

“I expect you’re reacting to his moonstone bracelet. Moonstone is a powerful symbol of fertility and sensuality. It calls to your inner goddess.” She added another flower, then another and another to his plait, all the time musing, “It’s quite natural. I feel it, too. But you must remember that his spirit is already bound to Harry’s.”

“Luna!” Ginny protested, laughing. “I was only teasing!”

“That’s good. Harry and Draco are my friends and I wouldn’t want them upset.” Luna tucked the last flower behind Draco’s ear, then smiled sweetly at him. “You look lovely.”

“Thanks. I think.”

When Luna started in on healing properties of Moonstone, Draco decided that he’d had quite enough—of Lovegood’s well-intentioned idiocies and of Ginny’s far less innocent ribbing. He politely but firmly detached himself from the two women, soothing his conscience with the certainty that they would amuse each other far more effectively than he could. Then he fled to the lake to visit the grindylows.

They might consider leeches a delicacy, but at least they didn’t talk rubbish.

* * *

Harry found him by the lake a couple of hours later. He was crouched on the muddy bank, feeding earthworms to the grindylows as they swarmed just below the water’s surface, jaws snapping greedily. At Harry’s call, he looked up, broke out in a smile, and dropped the last of his wriggling treats into the water. Then he rose gracefully to his feet and _Scourgified_ the mud from his hands before letting Harry grab them.

With a tug on his hands, Harry gathered Draco into his arms and gazed into his upturned face.

“You have flowers in your hair.”

Draco huffed and rolled his eyes. “Lovegood.”

“Ah. That explains it.”

He touched one purple-blue cornflower lightly, then traced a line with his fingertip along Draco’s jaw and up to his lips. They softened at his touch. Parted. Invited a kiss that Harry had no power to refuse.

Bending to capture the other man’s lips, he drank deeply from them, stroking his tongue into his mouth and humming with pleasure when Draco’s rose to meet it. They stood locked together, mouths moving ever more urgently, until the sound of voices jerked them back to a sense of their surroundings.

Harry stepped back, breathing a little too hard, his cock now aching and his bollocks tight. Draco looked a bit wrecked, himself, and the sight only made Harry’s guts twist harder with longing.

“We can’t do this here.”

Draco shot him a look from beneath his lashes and purred, “Ashamed of me, Potter?”

Harry grimaced. “A bloody reporter from some political rag has been following me all day. He wants a comment on the rumors about the Head Auror post, but I expect he’d settle for photos of us snogging.”

Draco smirked, slipped a hand through Harry’s arm, and began leading him toward the shelter of the woods.

“You will have to respond to the rumors eventually.”

Harry fell into step beside him and both men lengthened their strides.

“Not as long as they’re only rumors. And not until I figure out what I’m actually going to do.”

“You want to be Head Auror, Harry.”

“Do I? I’m not so sure.”

“All right, _I_ want you to be Head Auror, if only so you’ll spend more time in an office than out in the field. Or lying in a bed in St. Mungo’s.”

“I could still resign and become a gentleman of leisure, like my husband.”

“For that, you have to be a gentleman.”

They were under the trees now, hidden from sight, shaded by the branches above their heads. Harry slowed to a walk, then stopped in a small clearing. Tilting his head back, he sucked in a deep breath and let it out on a laugh.

“Alone at last!” He propped his back against a convenient tree trunk and pulled Draco into his arms. “I’ve been waiting all day to get my hands on you.”

“Git,” Draco said provocatively. He rocked his hips, rubbing his still-swollen cock against Harry’s and dragging a hiss from him. “You’re the one who scarpered with Teddy and left me to the tender mercies of Ginny Weasley. _Circe’s flaming tits_ , that woman is dangerous!”

“A positive menace. What did she do this time?”

“Tried to set me up as her next trophy fuck. As if I would follow in the footsteps of Clive the Ponce!”

Harry laughed. “I should hope that wasn’t the only reason you turned her down.”

“Well… it may also have had something to do with her breasts…”

“You’re awful,” Harry purred, even as he pulled Draco into another flaming kiss.

This one quickly got out of hand. One taste of Draco’s lips, and Harry was rutting helplessly against him, clutching his denim-clad arse in one hand and a fistful of silver-gilt hair in the other. Draco didn’t seem to mind. He had both hands buried in Harry’s hair and one leg hooked around his calf, all his weight resting against his husband’s larger body, surrendering to his urgent touch. When Harry lifted him clear off his feet and ground their cocks together, he moaned.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Harry breathed, abruptly breaking the kiss and letting Draco sink back onto his feet. “You taste so good.”

“Then why did you stop?” Draco murmured, nipping lightly at his jaw.

“Because I was about to embarrass both of us.”

“I’m not embarrassed. I’m hard enough to come in my pants—or somewhere on your naked body, if you prefer.”

“Fuck,” Harry said again.

His head was spinning and his body burning. He wanted Draco desperately—evenmore desperately than usual, if that were possible. It took all his self-control not to strip him naked right there in the Thestrals’ wood and bugger him silly. And that was a problem.

Harry loved his life with Draco. He loved everything they did together and truly needed nothing more. If he remembered a time when they would fuck through the night, Harry balls-deep in Draco’s beautiful arse, it was only that. A memory. And the only pain it caused him was the realization that his lover had never fully healed.

Harry could live without burying himself in Draco’s arse. He didn’t expect it. Didn’t need it. And most of the time, didn’t miss it. But every once in a while…

He shuddered slightly and guided Draco’s head down into his shoulder so he didn’t have to look at his face.

Today was one of those rare days when he doubted his restraint. When he needed to take a step back, catch his breath, and remind himself that a fuck, no matter how mind-bending, was not worth the damage it would do. He would let Draco come all over any part of his naked body that he liked, as many times as he liked, but not ’til he’d gotten ahold of himself.

“Harry?” Draco lifted his head. Fixed him with gleaming eyes. “That was an offer, in case you missed it.”

“I didn’t.” He stroked his hands down Draco’s back, pausing to fit them around the perfect curve of his arse, and felt the reckless heat flare in him again. “And I’ll definitely take you up on it. Just not here.”

“Hmm.” Draco leaned in to kiss him again, teasing his lips open with his tongue, then slanting his own more firmly against them. “Where, then?”

“Salazar’s cock! We’re both acting like randy teenagers! Was I really gone that long?”

Draco cast him a provocative look from beneath his lashes and smirked. “It’s my Moonstone bracelet calling to your inner goddess.”

Harry cocked an eyebrow at him. “It’s what, now?”

“I have it on _excellent_ authority that Moonstone is a potent symbol of fertility and sensuality…”

“Luna!” Harry groaned, letting his head fall back against the tree. “I should have known!”

“You most certainly should. But now that we know why we’re acting like randy teenagers, shall I take the bracelet off and chuck it in the lake? Or shall we just get down to it?”

“I’m not going to blow you in the woods,” Harry said severely.

“No? You’ve done it before. Remember Hogwarts? Behind Hagrid’s cabin?”

Harry shifted uncomfortably as his cock began to leak. “Still. We have guests to consider.”

Draco looked at him for a long minute, his face suddenly serious. Then he asked, “Do we really have to be here? They all seem to be enjoying themselves. The gardens are a success.”

“A brilliant success,” Harry agreed fervently.

“So what do they need from us?”

Harry bit his lip. “You want to leave?”

“I want my husband to take me home.”

Harry regarded him for another moment or two, then pushed himself away from the tree and wrapped both arms around his slighter body.

The two men disappeared with a _crack._

* * *

Harry didn’t want to let go of Draco the instant they apparated into the sitting room. He didn’t want to distance himself from the other man, didn’t want so much as a molecule of air between their bodies. In fact, what he wanted more than anything was to back Draco up against the settee, ravish his mouth, bare his body, swallow his cock, and make him keen with pleasure as he came. But he couldn’t do any of this ’til he had a firmer grip on himself, so he reluctantly dropped his arms and stepped back.

Draco made no protest. Just blinked at him in confusion.

“How about a cup of tea?” Harry said brightly. Then, before Draco could answer, he headed for the kitchen.

Draco was still standing in the same spot on the hearthrug, still wearing the same puzzled look, when Harry returned five minutes later with a loaded tea tray. He watched as Harry set the tray down and waved his hand to start the tea pouring. Then he took the cup Harry held out to him.

“Sit down, Draco. Please.”

He drifted over to the settee, eyes still fixed on Harry’s face, and perched on the far end.

“Biscuit?” Harry held out a plate of shortbread.

Draco shook his head. Took a sip of his tea. Watched Harry from the corners of his eyes. Something about his steady regard and enigmatic expression told Harry that he knew exactly what he was doing.

Harry gulped his own tea and smacked his lips. “Mmm. I needed that.”

Draco quietly set his cup on the table. He got to his feet and took a step closer to Harry.

“Er, how about some music, then?” Harry asked in desperation. “Will you play for me?”

Draco gave him another steady look, expression guarded, even cautious, then shrugged and headed for the piano that stood to the left of the fireplace. Harry heaved a silent sigh of relief and let himself collapse into the settee cushions.

They had brought the lovely upright piano from Narcissa’s private parlor at the Manor, one small piece of Draco’s childhood that they’d managed to salvage from the wreckage. In the months since, Draco had taken to playing it nearly every day. Harry, though an ignorant boor when it came to Classical music—as Draco never failed to point out—loved to watch him. He didn’t care that he could barely tell Chopin from Tchaikovsky or a Nocturne from a Concerto. What fascinated him was the look on Draco’s face when he played, the tilt of his head as he bowed thoughtfully over the keyboard, the set of his shoulders, the grace and speed of his fingers, the droop of his lashes over his inward gaze, the smile that touched his lips when the last note echoed into silence.

Draco was always beautiful. At the piano, he was glorious.

Of course, today Harry couldn’t look. Not when his entire purpose in suggesting that Draco play was to distract himself from the effect his husband had on him. So, rather than fix his gaze on Draco’s face, he slumped back and closed his eyes.

Draco tinkered idly at the keyboard, not settling on any single piece, just filling the room with pretty notes. Harry smiled to himself, picturing his expression. Then, suddenly, his playing became more purposeful. More tuneful. Somehow haunting. And he began to sing.

“ _If I could make a wish I think I'd pass,_

“ _Can't think of anything I need…_ ”

Harry almost jerked up in surprise but managed to stop himself in time.

Draco never sang. As often as Harry had heard him play, the only time in his life that he’d ever heard him sing was at the Horntail. On that stage. For all those panting, greedy men. Filling that room with his low, rough-edged voice.

If that fact alone weren’t enough, the tone of his voice and the words coming out of his mouth would have told Harry that this was something special. A once-in-a-lifetime moment. If he shattered it now, it would never come again.

He’d lose that voice forever.

“ _Making love with you has left me peaceful, warm and tired._

“ _What more could I ask? There's nothing left to be desired_ …”

He held his breath, willing himself to utter stillness, until voice and music soared together into the chorus.

“ _Sometimes, all I need is the air that I breathe and to love you…_ ”

Suddenly, he was on his feet, headed for the piano. He couldn’t help himself.

“ _All I need is the air that I breathe, yes to love you._

“ _All I need is the air that I breathe…_ ”

Flattening his back to the wall beside the piano, Harry gazed intently at Draco’s face, unable to tear his gaze away.

He played with his eyes closed, his head tilted up, finding the notes by instinct. When he drew in a breath, it sobbed in his chest. That was when Harry realized that he had tears on his cheeks. The song soared again. That incredible voice stroked over Harry’s skin, making his guts twist, his cock stir and his heart ache with want.

Harry just watched and waited. Let him sing the final chorus, let the last haunting line rise with the piano’s notes and fade into nothing. Then Draco’s eyes flicked open and they stared at each other.

“Did you sing that at the club?” Harry finally asked.

“Once in a while. Not often.”

“Why not?”

“It hurt too much.” He hesitated, eyes still locked on Harry’s, then added, “It was always for you.”

“Draco,” Harry began, pushing himself away from the wall and stepping toward him.

Draco was suddenly on his feet, around the piano bench and reaching for Harry’s hand. He laced his fingers through Harry’s and turned for the door, pulling the other man after him. Harry followed in numb silence, too overwhelmed by emotion to offer any protest when Draco led him down the hallway and into their bedroom. He shut the door, added a spell to tell Kreacher that they were not to be disturbed, then dropped his wand on the bedside table and turned to face Harry.

Their bodies were barely a handspan apart. Much too close for comfort.

“Draco, I can’t…”

“Shh.” He caught Harry’s head in his hands, cradling his face between his palms, in a gesture that Harry had used himself a hundred times. “Trust me.”

Harry closed his eyes in a brief, fervent prayer for strength. In that moment, he wanted so desperately to hold onto Draco, to draw strength from him the way Draco so often did from him, to trust that the other man would set the boundaries and the pace of their lovemaking. He wanted to let go and let his husband be his guide. But he was afraid… _so_ afraid of overstepping and hurting the one person he had sworn would never feel pain at his hands.

“Harry.”

Draco took a step closer, still clasping his head, bringing their bodies together.

“I’ve missed you.” One hand skimmed down Harry’s side, then moved between them to cup his crotch. “Missed having you inside me.”

“Oh, God…” Harry breathed, his entire body shuddering when the heel of Draco’s hand pressed into his rigid cock.

He bent his head to bury his face in Draco’s neck, where his plait fell over his shoulder. The hair was soft and smooth under his cheek, perfumed by the wilting flowers still stuck in it, and the skin of his throat like silk against his lips.

“God, Draco.” He felt tears squeeze through his lashes, as he whispered, “You have flowers in your hair.”

“I want you inside me again, Harry.” Draco slipped his hand behind Harry’s head, pulling him closer, and pressed his cheek to his hair. “Please.”

“Anything for you,” he lifted his head to fix tear-blurred eyes on his husband’s face, “but you have to be sure.”

“I’m sure.” Draco kissed him, mouth open and hungry, breath hot and quick on his face. “Absolutely sure.”

“ _God_ ,” Harry groaned again, even as he caught Draco up in his arms and carried him over to the bed. “Oh God, oh God, oh God…”

He set Draco on the mattress, then leaned over him, bearing him onto his back. Draco’s legs came up, parting to let Harry kneel between them, and his arms circled his shoulders. He lifted his head, finding Harry’s lips with his own, clinging desperately to them. Harry’s head was spinning and his cock leaking by the time he finally pulled away.

“You know you don’t have to do this! Not for me!” he gasped, struggling for rationality even as Draco’s hands sank into his hair and tugged to draw him down again.

“Stupid sodding Gryffindor,” Draco murmured lovingly.

He claimed Harry’s mouth again, lips hot and swollen and messy, tongue reaching for his, arms and legs closing around him and pulling him down. Harry sank onto him and felt the full impressive length of his erection push into his belly. Draco arched up against him with an insistent grunt, and for a perilous moment, Harry thought he was going to come in his pants.

Knowing he was running out of time and control, he sent out a surge of magic to banish their clothing. Draco shivered, then rolled his hips, and suddenly their cocks were sliding together, spreading slick moisture over their skin. Harry caught Draco’s arms and stretched them up over his head, pinning them down, and began kissing his way down his throat.

“Nngh… Harry…” he groaned, body twisting to increase the friction between them.

“Shh, I’ve got you. I’ve got you,” Harry murmured into his sweat-dampened neck. “Trust me, love… I’m going to make you feel so good…”

“Anything,” Draco panted, “anything, just not…”

Harry caught the hint of fear in his voice and immediately lifted his head. “What?”

Draco swallowed once, his throat working, and whispered, “Not from behind.”

“Never.” Harry stooped to kiss him. “I never would.”

Then, on a sudden impulse, Harry rolled over, pulling Draco onto his chest. The smaller man sprawled atop him, looking down in some surprise, until Harry caught his thighs and guided him into position straddling his hips. Then he broke out in a beatific smile.

“Come here.” Harry slipped a hand behind his head, pulling him close, while his other hand stroked down his back and over one arse cheek. “Pull your knees up.”

Draco complied, folding his knees and tucking them against Harry’s ribs. Then, as Harry found and fingered his opening, he groaned softly, rolled his hips and arched his back, spreading himself wantonly. Another wandless spell, and Harry’s fingers were slick with lubricant.

“You don’t have to,” Draco whispered into Harry’s neck, even as he writhed at the feel of Harry’s finger working into him. “I don’t need it.”

“You do. It’s been a long time, and I’m not going to let anything hurt you tonight.”

“I like it when it hurts.”

“Not tonight,” Harry repeated, firmly.

He slid his finger in farther. Worked it gently around. Eased it out and added another.

Draco, done with arguing, pushed into his hand and groaned his encouragement. “Stupid sodding Gryffindor,” he panted, “if you don’t hurry up, I’m going to come on your fingers.”

“So, come,” Harry replied. “We’ve got all night.”

“Nnngh-no… Please, Harry.”

“Okay. Whatever you want.” Sliding his fingers out, Harry caught Draco’s arms and pushed him upright. “Mount up, Dragon.”

Half-laughing and half-whimpering, Draco rose on his knees. He reached behind him to find Harry’s cock and guide it into position. Then, body taut with anticipation, eyes locked to Harry’s, he sank down onto it in one long, smooth slide. The moan that rippled from his lips as he did so was so filthy and so perfect that, once again, Harry nearly pitched into orgasm on the spot. By a superhuman effort, he held it in. Held himself rigidly still as his cock sank ever deeper into the caressing heat of the other man’s body.

Then Draco was sitting astride his hips, impaled on his cock, gazing down at him with lust-blown eyes. His cheeks were flushed and his lips parted. His plait, still threaded with flowers, fell over his shoulder to tickle Harry’s ribs. His cock stood up stiffly from the place where their bodies met, dripping hungry juices onto Harry’s stomach.

The two men just stared at each other for a long minute. Draco licked his lip, his tongue sliding over the swollen, reddened curve. Harry caressed his ribs, his waist, his thigh.

“I never thought I’d see you like this again,” he whispered.

Draco gave a brief, flickering smile, then let his head fall back and his eyes close. He began to move, rolling his hips, pulling against the hardness spearing him. Harry gasped, his head lifting and his shoulders curving up as every nerve ending sparked deliciously. His fingers sank into the muscles of Draco’s thighs hard enough to bruise. Draco just moaned, down low in his throat, and moved faster. Harder. Bracing his hands on Harry’s chest for balance as he rode him.

“Fuck… Draco…” Harry groaned.

Draco didn’t answer. His thighs were trembling, his skin beaded with sweat, his fingers crooked until his nails bit into Harry’s skin. He spread his knees wider, lifted himself a handspan up, then froze, while Harry gasped and swore under him.

“ _Ungh…_ _Fuck!_ ”

With a long, shuddering moan, Draco sank down once more, swallowing him to the root, and began to rock in the urgent, stuttering rhythm of release. He cried out. Clutched at Harry’s chest. Spasmed around his cock. Then slumped forward, shuddering, as he pumped hot, white stripes of come over Harry’s stomach.

Harry held him, one hand behind his head, the other on his hip, feeling the aftershocks rip through him and listening to the small, helpless noises he made.

“Draco,” he whispered, now petting his hair. “Draco, tell me you’re all right.”

“Mmh.”

“Tell me it was good.”

“Hnngh… Harry…”

“Please, love. Please.”

His own body was on fire, his cock aching and pulsing, buried as it was in the sweet heat of Draco’s arse, but all he cared about now was knowing that Draco had been right. That he needed this. That his shaking was all from the power of his release and not from fear or regret.

“Please tell me it was good.”

“Nngh-no it wasn’t good,” Draco finally mumbled, “it was fucking brilliant.”

Harry gave a startled laugh that turned into a groan. He combed the straggling hair back from Draco’s face and pressed his head into his shoulder.

“Bloody fucking hell! I fucking love you!” Then, quite suddenly, he rolled over to tip Draco onto his back and land between his spread thighs. “And I want to fuck you into the mattress! Is this all right?”

Draco laughed up at him, his face still soft and flushed and dazed with sex. Hooking a hand behind Harry’s neck, he pulled him down into a kiss. At the same time, his legs came up to lock around his waist.

Harry gave a panting moan of gratitude and longing, then began to thrust.

* * *

Draco lay curled into Harry’s side, head on his shoulder, wrapped in his arms. His posture was sated, trusting, but he wasn’t drifting toward sleep as he should be. He was very much awake. Coiled. Tense.

_Thinking._

Harry could almost hear his brain working.

“Draco?”

“Hm?”

“What’s wrong?”

Draco lifted his head to blink at him. “Nothing.”

“Then why are you worrying so loudly?”

“I’m not worrying.” He broke off, eyes going unfocused, then sighed and settled his head back into its usual place in the hollow of Harry’s shoulder. “Okay, maybe a little. Only…”

“What?” Harry prompted softly, his fingers toying with the long strands of Draco’s hair that had long since come loose from their plait. There were still petals clinging to them.

“I can’t help thinking, sometimes, of all the ways my life has gone wrong,” Draco murmured. “All the hideous things I’ve done or let other people do to me.”

Harry opened his mouth to protest but realized, just in time, that Draco didn’t need his denials or reassurance. He needed to talk. The best thing Harry could do was to keep quiet and let him.

“When I close my eyes,” he went on in a haunted whisper, “I can still smell my room at the Horntail. All that sweat and spunk…”

He shuddered slightly and slipped one arm around Harry’s waist to hold him tightly.

“The smell is the worst. You wouldn’t think it. You’d think it’d be the fucking, the beatings, the pain, the cold, the loneliness. But when I let myself remember, it’s always the smell that hits me first… That filthy chaise at the Horntail. My mother’s perfume at the Manor. The prisoners in my cell…”

He swallowed audibly, then went on, “I could smell what they wanted to do to me. How badly they wanted to hurt me. Warwick, too. He never touched me that way, never fucked me, but he got off on the others hurting me. I know he did because I could smell it on him. The stink of a man who’s about to violate you in every way possible and come to the sound of your screams.”

“Draco.” Harry couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t listen in silence. “Why are you telling me this?”

“I just… I started remembering…”

“Why? Did I do something to upset you? Was it the sex?”

Draco abruptly lifted his head to pin his husband with a wide-eyed gaze. “No, Harry. It was nothing you did.”

“But…”

He scooted farther up, bringing his head on a level with Harry’s, and repeated, firmly, “It was nothing you did. I just have to remember sometimes.”

“Right after I shag you for the first time since Azkaban? You think that’s a coincidence?”

“I think…” He paused, then reached up to cup Harry’s cheek with his hand, to touch the down-turned corner of his mouth with his thumb. “I think I’m having trouble believing that this will last. That’s it’s real. That I can possibly be this lucky and this happy after the total, fucking disaster I’ve made of my life.”

“You didn’t make your life a disaster,” Harry countered.

“I did. No,” he shifted his thumb to press across Harry’s lips and hold them closed, “let’s be honest about that, for once. I made choices—stupid, destructive choices—and I’m the only one to blame for the consequences.”

“You did not _choose_ to be raped and prostituted and bound to Voldemort!” Harry protested hotly.

“No, but I chose to finish what my father started. I chose Phineas over prison, Nero over starvation, and both of them over you.”

“Only because you thought I was out of reach.”

“You make excuses for me because you’re too bloody forgiving for your own good, but I still did it. And I’m not convinced mistakes that bad can ever be fixed.”

“They can.”

He smiled sadly and stroked Harry’s cheek with his thumb. “You have to say that. You’re the sodding Savior and you never admit defeat. But Harry… what if I can’t be saved? What if none of this is real and I’m still at the club, spread out on that chaise with a stranger’s cock up my arse, doped out of my mind and dreaming of you? Or what if this is just a little slice of time before it all goes to shit again, like in Azkaban? The universe’s way of torturing me—giving me everything I ever wanted, just so it can rip it all away?”

“Stop it, Draco.”

He went on, unhearing. “That’s really what I deserve, isn’t it? That’s what happens to people like me, when they fool themselves that they can change…”

“ _Stop_.” Harry lurched upright, forcing Draco to sit up as well, and caught him by the arms. “This is all rubbish, and you know it. You and I are real. Our life together is real. And I’m not fucking going anywhere, right?”

When Draco just looked at him, eyes too large in his pale face, Harry gave him a slight shake. “Right?”

The beginnings of a smile tilted his lips. “If you say so.”

“I do. And anyway, the universe can’t punish you without punishing me, too, and where’s the justice in that?”

His lips twitched, then widened into a full-blown smile. His eyes narrowed with amusement. “Entitled, much?”

“Hey, I’m the sodding Savior, remember? I’m _entitled_ to spend my life with the man I love.”

Draco leaned in to press a kiss to his lips, then, before Harry could say anything, grabbed his wand from the nightstand and hopped off the bed. Harry watched him pad over to the dressing table, his naked body glowing in the half-light of a Summer evening. With a flick of his wand, he lit the lamp standing on the table and sat down in the chair.

“What’re you doing?”

“Just having a look.”

Kicking free of the blankets, Harry crossed the room to his side. Their gazes met in the mirror. Draco smiled up at him. On a sudden impulse, Harry dropped down to kneel beside the chair and lean his head into the other man’s shoulder. Then, again, he turned to look at their reflections in the mirror.

Draco’s face was thoughtful as he studied them both.

“What do you see?” Harry asked, softly.

“You and me, Harry and Draco Potter, exactly where we belong.”

“No ghosts?”

In answer, Draco slipped his arm around Harry’s shoulders and cupped his cheek with his hand. Harry titled his head up just as Draco lowered his, and their lips met in a long, sweet kiss. Draco’s hair spilled around them in a silver curtain. The scent of it made Harry’s head swim with love and longing, even as the taste of his lips made his body sing.

When Draco finally lifted his head, breaking the kiss, Harry wrapped both arms around him and tucked his head under his chin. His eyes—half-closed, dazed with emotion—drifted over to the mirror to find and lock on Draco’s.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured.

The vision in the mirror, all silver and gold in the lamplight, smiled back at him. “Not half as beautiful as you are.”

“ _Pfft!_ ” Harry snorted, making the hair falling past his face ruffle. “Git.”

“Imbecile.”

“Twat.”

“ _Chosen One_.”

Harry chuckled and nestled his head more comfortably into the curve of Draco’s neck. “That’s low, even for you.”

His eyes drifted closed, and he sighed in contentment when he felt the other man’s hand pushing back his hair, his lips touching his forehead.

“You never could take a compliment,” Draco murmured, his mouth brushing Harry’s skin. Then, very quietly, “You are beautiful, Harry, and I could sit here all night, just watching you like this.”

“On my knees at your feet?” Harry teased gently.

“So warm and open.”

Startled by his earnest words, Harry lifted and turned his head, searching Draco’s face, and caught the gleam of tears in his eyes.

“I love you, Harry,” he whispered. “I can’t just blurt it out the way you do, but that doesn’t mean…”

“I know.” Harry moved quickly, straining up to capture his lips. “I know.”

Draco met him eagerly, clutching at his hair, slanting his head to bring their lips more firmly together in a hungry, open-mouthed kiss. At the first stroke of Draco’s tongue, Harry felt his cock begin to fill.

“I want to see you warm and open,” he breathed into the kiss. “I want to see you spread out on the bed under me.”

Draco bit at his lip and murmured, “I want to see you come apart inside me.”

Harry gave a low, triumphant laugh at that and rose smoothly to his feet. He held out a hand to the other man. Draco took it, let Harry pull him up and into his arms, let Harry lift his feet from the floor and carry him over to the bed. Then they were sprawled together on the wide mattress. Harry was balls-deep in Draco’s body, with those gorgeous long legs wrapped around his waist and those Arctic eyes fixed on him.

He paused, caught by the intensity of Draco’s gaze, and asked, softly, “What do you see?”

Draco reached up to touch his lightning bolt scar with one cool fingertip. “Harry Potter.” He smiled, even as a few tears slipped through his lashes. “My husband. Exactly where he belongs.”

**_Finis_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Draco sings is "The Air That I Breathe" by the Hollies.
> 
> I am truly, deeply grateful to everyone who read these stories, and especially to those who commented and left Kudos. I couldn't have finished the series without your encouragement and engagement. I hope you enjoyed the journey as much as I did, and I hope you'll take the time to let me know what you think!
> 
> Thank you, again! Happy reading!


End file.
